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SHIFTING SANDS 






















































































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SHIFTING SANDS 


BY 

Mrs. ROMILLY FEDDEN 

(KATHARINE WALDO DOUGLAS) 

tOafU 

n 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
(Cfce CliUer^ibe Cambubije 
1914 


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V r 3\1 

5h 


COPYRIGHT, I914, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


Published November iqi4 


m 


13 1914 


¥ 

©C|.A38837fi 



To A. D. 

My brother — does the sun still shine in Tacitus, 

And the ash tree wave as proudly upon Mount Eliza, 
And the creek lead little feet through the enchanted 
meadows, while the fog clouds London town ? 



, 


















































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SHIFTING SANDS 


PROLOGUE 

Two hundred miles from any sea — yet the sea- 
sand drifts and shifts as silently and ceaselessly here 
to-day as it has drifted and shifted through all the 
millions of years since the last great upheaval of this 
atom of a world prisoned the trilobites in the out- 
cropping limestone of the neighbouring pasture, and, 
rolling back great waters, stranded this inland sand- 
dune. 

Sand, sand, sand, white, fine, shifting sea-sand 
looking from far like a livid welt in the rock-broken 
face of the hills; sand that blowing sifts with a dis- 
turbing, mysterious whisper not to be heard by 
dulled ears ; sand that will not be held by any boun- 
daries, but softly creeps through, mounts over every 
man-set barrier, — sea-sand shifting and drifting 
two hundred miles from any sea. 

The sun of April had just set — that sun which at 
noontide hints of summer nearing, yet, as day wanes, 
remembers still the winter past. The sky above the 
horizon shone palely yellow, coldly primrose, shading 
up through faint clear green to tender grey. The 
country that lay below this quiet arch was a farming 

i 


SHIFTING SANDS 


land, hardly redeemed from forest half a century ago, 
a land of wide sweeps, of windy, rounded hills and 
open valleys, dotted with white farmhouses and red 
barns; a land whose boast and beauty were its single 
stately, symmetrical elms and its wide flowing 
“creek” that, rising thirty miles distant in the 
North woods, rolled on to join the Mohawk River. 
An Indian land this had been, and the county now 
bore an Indian name. 

“What,” thought Robert Dimmock, as he crossed 
the sand, his back to the widespread country and the 
evening sky, “had those early red men thought of 
this inland dune? How had they explained it?” 

He stopped and turned back to say the words to 
Mary, his wife. 

She was standing looking out across the farmland 
to the sunset. Something in her attitude stopped the 
commonplace before it reached his lips. Something 
about the stillness of her slender figure, there in the 
twilight facing the west, stirred him deeply to sad- 
ness. 

It was a feeling without any apparent logical 
cause, yet it laid a hand on his heartstrings and lent 
a sharp note of anxiety to his voice. 

“Mary!” 

“Yes,” she turned slowly, looking at him from 
where she stood, a pace of sand between them. 

He searched her face avidly for reassurance 
against the moment’s intolerable pain. Were there 
shadows beneath her eyes? Was she paler than she 
2 


SHIFTING SANDS 


should be? Had her cheek lost its delicate curve — 
or was it all some trick of the evening light? 

Startled, their eyes questioned each other. 

“What is it?” The question leaped from both. 
But she answered it, taking a step to him. 

“It’s this place, I think. It always — troubles 
me.” 

“ I know,” he said. 

They walked on together, the sand-dune rising in 
billows to their right, falling away gradually to their 
left. Their feet sank deep at every step. 

“ It frightens me,” Mary declared. “ I feel just as 
I used to when I was a child in the dark in a strange 
room at night. I want to shut my eyes and run. 
Is n’t it silly, Robert?” 

He felt for her hand and covered it with his own. 
“You are catching my moods,” he said. They 
walked on in silence, hand in hand ; then he spoke 
again. “ It drifts. See? Up there it has smothered a 
tree, there it has lost a boundary — the fence is 
buried. Here we follow a track — it was a road a 
year ago.” 

“You mean that it is resistless, that’s why I’m 
afraid?” 

“As resistless as the law of change. All shifts — 
all changes — law, custom, convention — nothing is 
stable under the sun.” His voice was cold and even. 

“You, a clergyman, Robert, say this?” Her an- 
swering tone was warm with challenge. 

“Yes, when I am honest with myself. But why 
3 


SHIFTING SANDS 


fear change? Change is not chance. There’s a pat- 
tern traced by the wind on the shifting sand.” 

She shiverecj. “ I want my pattern in stone! This 
is sinister. It will be sifting noiselessly over another 
road made vainly by some other man when we and 
our child — our Jean — yes, and her children and 
theirs — are dead and gone.” 

“Poor Mary!” 

“ Not poor, as long as you understand. There can 
be no fear really as long as I have you. But to be 
alone — how could one bear it? You know what I 
mean. All the outside pressing in and terror just 
waiting to swoop down and clutch, the terror of all 
that we accept as commonplace — day, night, sky, 
earth, ourselves — life — death. Just the glimpse I 
seem to get at moments terrifies me. Then I cling to 
you with my soul. In all the shifting there is love — ” 

“And God.” 

“The same — and, clinging, I am safe. Love 
brings a terror, an awareness, but the power to cast 
it out. See! The sand has drifted here since we 
crossed it two hours ago!” 

“The wind has risen.” 

“The wind, which is God. So God makes change 
and saves from change, Robert. Stop a minute. I 
am out of breath.” 

The two stood close together, Mary’s slight form 
pressed against her husband’s tall, spare figure, his 
arm about her. 

“Sand left by an ocean rolled back aeons ago. 

4 


SHIFTING SANDS 

How it must have roared, Mary, sucked away 
suddenly/’ 

She nodded. “What did you read to me the other 
night? That our nineteen hundred years is as two 
seconds’ span in the twenty-four-hour day since 
creation? And this sand has been shifting and drift- 
ing ever since.” 

“You are shivering. It’s the wind. You are cold. 
Beena will be anxious if I keep you out too late. 
We ’re a long way from home. Come.” 

“I know, but — ” she lingered. “Oh, hold me 
close for a moment. No, I’m not crying. There!” 
She pushed him away, with a laughing break in her 
gentle voice. “I am good for the rest of the way. 
Here’s the birch wood at last. And the moon, 
Robert! See it through the trees ! ” 

Side by side Robert Dimmock and Mary his wife 
followed the track in the moonlight, through the 
white birches, over the hill and out of sight. 

Yet behind them the sea-sand, lifted by the rising 
wind, still drifted and shifted silently and ceaselessly 
over the sand-dunes. 


CHAPTER I 


The table at the Unitarian parsonage was laid for 
breakfast. Two places to-day, where there had been 
three. Otherwise all was unchanged. 

The sun, through the high, many-paned windows, 
slanted, as usual, upon the white linen, upon the 
° ‘acorn” silver tea-set, upon the thin old silver 
spoons, upon the clear blue and white of Canton 
china, which together represented no modern at- 
tempt at aesthetic effect, but a dead woman’s uncon- 
scious love of the gracious things in life. 

For she who had treasured these things, to the 
wonder of her neighbours in this village of Tacitus, in 
northern New York, had left them all. Mary Dim- 
mock, the minister’s wife, was dead and buried, the 
funeral but yesterday. Yet the house, under the 
capable management of the one old servant Beena, 
had already reassumed its outward peace after the 
crowded, hushed excitement of the past four days. 

Beena had been up since dawn. She came in now 
from the kitchen, a tall, gaunt, grizzle-haired Scotch- 
woman, gravely stepping. She looked at the tall 
clock, ticking portentously, whose hands pointed to 
nine ; flicked a speck of dust from its tall mahogany 
case, glanced with a stiff face at the table laid for 
two ; then with hands tightly folded under her black 
apron returned to her waiting in the kitchen. Poor 
6 


SHIFTING SANDS 


man — let him sleep the heavy sleep of sorrow and 
exhaustion — and the child too. 

But the child was not sleeping; wrapped in the 
folds of the dining-room curtain she had heard 
Beena come and go. She had slipped down some 
time before. She had stood for long moments in the 
hall, with her hand on the knob of the dining-room 
door, her small face set, before she had entered 
bravely. Then the commonplace detail of the table 
had struck sharply upon her consciousness. Her 
mother? There was no place for her. She was gone 
— gone. A swelling wave of grief had rushed over 
the child. She had stood still, bracing herself to meet 
it, until she heard Beena’s step approaching. Then, 
without reasoning, she had blindly sought to hide 
herself. 

Now that Beena had gone, she still stood shiver- 
ing, her thin little body crisped with dread of all that 
the table meant to her. For endless weeks — all 
dreary spaces of time — she must sit there alone, 
facing her father. Her imagination magnified the 
ordeal of every day, of every meal. A sob shook her. 
What could she say to him? Would he try to talk to 
her, or would he bring a book and read, as he had on 
the rare occasions of her mother’s absence? That 
would be better if he brought a book. The hope 
calmed her. 

She pulled aside the curtain and looked out. But 
at the glimpse of the room, her trouble returned. 
She would have to talk. Her mother always did and 
7 


SHIFTING SANDS 


he liked it. What should she say? She strained her 
ears for his step, searching for her words. At any 
moment he might come. He might now be on the 
stair — and she would say — 

“You’re down, child,” Beena said, poking her 
head in from the kitchen again and seeing her. 
“What are you doing there? Have you heard the 
minister movin’? I knocked twice, but he gave me 
no answer, so I let him sleep.” 

“No, I have not heard my father.” The child 
answered precisely, stepping out from the curtain 
folds. “Shall I go up and call him?” 

Beena glanced again at the clock, and Jean’s eyes 
followed hers. “We’ll give him five minutes more,” 
the woman said, and withdrew. 

The child remained at the window, her hands 
twisting together, her eyes still on the clock. “ Beena 
shan’t see me cry,” she whispered fiercely. “ No one 
shall see me cry.” She paused, her hands still. “You 
hear, No one!” She flung the assurance around the 
room, from the clock to the silver candlesticks on the 
high white mantel-shelf, to the tiny figures that 
posed upon the blue jar, full of paper spills, to the 
familiar shapes of cherished porcelain in the dia- 
mond -paned corner cupboard, to the old prints in 
their worn gilt frames upon the wall. 

All these things had, like her, known her mother’s 
gentle touch; must miss her. She had hidden from 
Beena, but here were things that understood. She 
advanced into the room. “You all understand,” she 
8 


SHIFTING SANDS 


said breathlessly. “ And you know that I know that 
you do. Things understand more than people lots 
of times. People are more wooden than things lots 
of times. Gardens understand and trees — and I 
am going out now.” 

Her voice was brave. She opened the door into 
the broad hall which ran through the house from 
front to back. Here, too, sympathy seemed to her 
to vibrate in the air. “The whole house knows and 
is sorry,” she thought. 

As she quickly opened the back door and stepped 
into the pale April sunshine, her mind was busy with 
this idea, twisting it and turning it and wringing 
consolation from it. “Everything knows,” she de- 
cided, “ and oh, they’ll be sorry when she does n’t 
come again. They’ll wonder, maybe, why she 
does n’t come. But the big trees will whisper and the 
little trees will hear and tell the grass and the flowers 
till every littlest thing will know. At least, they do 
know now and they’re sorry, and they say if I’ll 
come out to them, she’ll be here to help.” 

She went down the path, talking in a monotonous 
undertone at random, soothing herself with her 
imaginings. In the borders green shoots were pierc- 
ing the mould. She saw them and stopped. She 
crouched on her heels and touched them softly. 
Brave little things from the long winter dark under- 
ground — the dark underground — she rested for 
an instant motionless, gazing at them, then with a 
shudder drew away and rose. 

9 


SHIFTING SANDS 


’ “Jean!” Beena’s voice rang sharply. “Jeanie!” 

! Jean turned. Beena was coming ponderously to- 
ward her. 

“Your father’s not in his room, nor anywhere in 
the house. Have you seen him?” 

The child’s eyes caught the woman’s look of 
apprehension. For a moment they returned each 
other’s gaze. The child was the first to speak. 

“ I have n’t seen him.” 

Beena paused. “Well,” she said. “Never mind. 
Come to breakfast. Perhaps he’s already back.” 

Jean followed, without comment, to the house. 
She knew that he was not back and that Beena did 
not believe that he was. As they reached the door 
she paused with a certain dignity. “Beena,” she 
said firmly, “we must not say anything to anybody 
even if we are frightened — yet. Papa would not 
like it. If he does n’t come, we will go and tell Dr. 
Erskine. He is papa’s friend.” 

Before Beena could answer, the sound of the 
knocker, hesitatingly lifted, sounded at the other 
end of the hall. 

With foreboding Beena pushed Jean into the 
dining-room. “Stay there,” she said. 

The knocking was repeated, more boldly now. 
She walked to the front door, wiped her hands nerv- 
ously on her black apron, and turned the brass knob. 

In the porch stood two men. Apology strove with 
alarm in their faces. Beena bent a stern gaze upon 
them. It must, indeed, be something of impor- 
io 


SHIFTING SANDS 


tance which should bring this oddly consorted pair 
to the door of the Unitarian parsonage. 

1 ‘Well?” Beena’s voice was harshly imperative. 

Mr. Donner, who was a farmer, and the taller of 
the two men, fell back a step, as if in deference to 
his companion’s rusty black coat and wide-brimmed 
black hat. 

The Welsh preacher, Owen Owens by name, braced 
his thin figure, and gravely removed the hat from 
his large head. His face had the look of stale cream 
cheese, his hair was lank and black, but his thin- 
lipped mouth was clever and his bulging brow gave 
evidence of thought. He swallowed hard, then 
cleared his throat. 

“Woman,” he said solemnly, speaking in a 
throaty Welsh accent, “the hand of God has fallen. 
The meenister is dead. Blessed be the name of the 
Lord.” 

“ Dead ! ” Beena repeated the words mechanically. 
Her hands fell heavily at her sides, yet in her strong 
face there was no surprise. She had felt the ap- 
proach of calamity. “Dead!” She closed the door 
carefully behind her and stepped out to them. 
“Dead!” she said a third time. 

V “Murdered, ma’am.” The farmer spoke. “Struck 
on the head with a spade or some such thing out to 
the graveyard.” 

“By the side of her gr-r-ave.” The preacher’s 
throaty roll gave to the word a deep significance. 
“By the side of her grave.” 

ii 


SHIFTING SANDS 


Beena withdrew herself. She could bear no famil- 
iarity of sympathy. 

“ Murdered? ” she repeated, addressing the farmer, 
“out at the graveyard?” Her tone demanded ex- 
planation. 

With a glance at the preacher the farmer stepped 
awkwardly nearer, and yet, with deference, spoke 
behind his raised hand. 

At his whispered words the woman recoiled. 

“I’ve alius said the graveyard’s too far from the 
village,” the farmer declared aloud. “He went out 
to visit her grave, finds ’em there or they come and 
findin’ him there ’s a struggle and they make an end 
of him. Plain as day. As I was cornin’ by into town 
an hour ago, I see the cemetery gate open. I got 
down to shut it an’ glanced in and see’d somethin’ 
dark lyin’ there. It was him. I’ve alius said the 
graveyard’s a lonesome place.” 

Horror held Beena’s slow mind. She felt for the 
doorknob uncertainly. 

The preacher motioned the farmer to silence, and 
himself continued gently. “ Brother Donner met me 
just as he got to your door. We went first across the 
road.” He motioned with his head to the big square 
stone house which stood opposite retired in its 
grove of elms. “To Dr. Erskine’s. As he is a promi- 
nent member of the congregation and a friend of 
the deceased, it seemed more fitting that he should 
break the news. But Miss Roxina said she could not 
see her way to wake him. He had been up all night 
12 


SHIFTING SANDS 


with a case and is worn out. She said she ’d tell him 
as soon as he was up and he ’d come across — Now, 
if there is anything more we can do for you — any 
one else — •” 

Beena shook her head. “I must go in,” she said 
dully. 4 ‘ They ’ll be bringin’ him and there ’s the child 

The farmer hitched himself up in his boots. 
“ ‘There ain’t no hurry,” he said kindly. “ Coroner’s 
gone fishin’ up the creek. It’ll be an hour or two 
’fore we can get an inquest. Good-day, ma’am. 
Sorry to bring bad news. As we was a-sayin’, it’s 
rough on the kid.” 

He turned away. The preacher hesitated. “ I am 
sorry he's gone,” he said in a deep voice. “Though 
the Lord’s will be done. We never had much to say 
to one another, but Brother Dimmock was a fair 
man.” He turned and followed the farmer down the 
steps of the porch, down the short strip of beaten 
graveled path, and down the stone steps that led to 
the broad, grass-bound village street. 

Motionless, Beena watched them go. With an 
effort she pulled herself round, opened the house 
door and stood on the threshold surveying the hall. 
The faded, large-patterned scarlet-and-green Brus- 
sels carpet was speckless. Against the left wall, be- 
tween the doors to the sitting-room and dining- 
room, a huge black horsehair sofa stood stiffly, 
while against the right wall, between the two doors 
that led to the narrow staircase and to the parlour, 
stood a slender-legged mahogany table. 

13 


SHIFTING SANDS 


With rigid face Beena took careful note of all, 
then laid her hand on the door of the seldom-used 
“best room” and looked in. It, too, was in perfect 
order, but the blinds must again be opened, the 
furniture pushed aside, all Mary Dimmock’s treas- 
ured possessions disclosed to the curious eyes of the 
village. She closed the door sharply. Yes — again 
the hall would be muddied by many feet, the table 
would hold a motley array of hats, and people would 
stare. 

She had forgotten the child in her unreasoning 
bitterness against the people of Tacitus, against 
the men who had come, against the man who was 
dead. Now the thought of the ordeal before her 
drew tight lines of pain about her mouth. She 
walked rigidly to the dining-room door, and 
even as Jean had waited, not daring to enter, so 
Beena waited now. But it had to be done. She 
slowly opened the door. Jean stood just within. 
She looked up. 

“You need n’t tell me,” she said blankly. “ I know. 
Papa is dead.” 

Fighting the strong reticence of years, Beena put 
out her hand to the child, but with a wild sob Jean 
dashed by her out of the room and out of the house. 
She rushed through the garden, across the rough 
lawn to a group of tall hemlock trees. There, part- 
ing the low, sweeping branches, she pushed through 
and threw herself face downward on the shiny car- 
pet within. ; 


14 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“Help me, help me, help me,” she sobbed. “I 
did n’t want to see him, and now he’ll never come 
back; oh, father, I did love you. I did love you. 
Oh, mother, tell him that I loved him — oh, mother 
— mother — mother — ” 


CHAPTER II 


“S’pose we had better go and tell the news at the 
store,” Mr. Donner said, as he and the preacher 
turned along the quiet village street towards the 
one centre of life, the square. He spoke in a hushed 
voice, conscious that he was the bearer of tidings to 
shock and startle the little community. 

The preacher, holding his hat in one hand, wiped 
his forehead with his handkerchief. 

“You don’t need me for that, Brother Donner,” 
he said in his thick voice. “You can get on now, and 
there’s a bit o’ delicate work waiting in my shop 
this meenit — a fine timepiece it is, waitin’ to be 
returned to the judge’s wife in Attica.” He spoke the 
names quite simply. Every one knew that Owen 
Owens’s skill was even more widely known than in 
that neighbouring city, and that strange and beauti- 
ful things found their way to his hands for restora- 
tion and repair. “I’ve dawdled long enough thro’ 
respect to the meenister,” he went on soberly, “so 
I ’ll just be goin’ on. But I ’m thinking what will the 
doctor say?” 

“You know your own business,” Mr. Donner 
agreed. “And we can’t do much without the doctor, 
that’s a fact.” 

The two men nodded and the preacher walked 
on across the square, past the big green watering- 
16 


SHIFTING SANDS 


trough and down by the post-office, while the farmer 
stood still, arrested by a woman’s voice which 
spoke over the fence at his side. 

“What’s that I heard? What about the minister? 
What’s the matter? You do look solemn.” 

As she spoke, Mrs. Beebe opened her gate and 
appeared, broom in hand. “What is it?” she asked 
crisply. 

The farmer nodded awkwardly, then through 
fear of the little woman’s compelling gaze blurted 
out the truth. 

No horror could daunt Maria Beebe. 

“Doctor know?” she snapped. “No?” She 
turned decisively, whisking off her apron as she ran 
up the path. “I am going straight to the parson- 
age,” she called back., 

“Trust you for getting in yer sharp nose where ’t 
isn’t wanted,” the farmer grumbled. “Wish I 
hadn’t told her,” he thought. “Still, she’d ’a’ 
known in a minute. Sam would run acrost with the 
news. Every bit o’ news Sam gits to the store is 
grist fer her mill. There he is now.” 

The farmer crossed the road and stolidly as- 
cended the unpainted wooden steps which led up 
to the door of the general store. Sam Beebe stood 
on the threshold, chewing a toothpick, his hands in 
his pockets and his slouching figure framed between 
the heterogeneous collection of objects exposed in 
the two shop windows. Even his laziness was gal- 
vanised into energy by the news. 

17 


SHIFTING SANDS 

“ What’s the doctor say?” he demanded. “What 
had we better do? Do you hear this?” He turned 
into the store and reported the news to two or three 
men within. And at once, and wherever it was re- 
ceived in Tacitus that day, the first question that 
inevitably came was “What does the doctor say? 
Does the doctor know? What does the doctor think?” 
For in Tacitus, John Erskine, the doctor, was the 
head of the community. He held the place not so 
much by virtue of inheritance as by personal force. 
It no longer suffices in these quiet villages for a man 
to be doctor, minister, or lawyer in order to com- 
mand respect. He must have more than the pro- 
fessional tag to which alone fifty years ago his fel- 
low citizens gladly raised the hat. 

It was not because John Erskine lived in the old 
house of his fathers, not because he had an educa- 
tion, that Tacitus turned to him. It was that, born 
among them, understanding them, he unconsciously 
embodied to them an ideal of manliness which they 
admired and understood. 

Their fathers had known his fathers ; yet when he 
had returned from abroad at his father’s death, after 
an absence of ten years in school, college, and post- 
graduate study, to take the old doctor’s practice, 
they had held their sympathy in abeyance until he 
had won their confidence. He himself, fresh from 
a professional triumph in Paris, had acknowledged 
to himself that Tacitus would not take him on faith, 
and respecting them for it, he had set himself to the 
18 


SHIFTING SANDS 


task of winning them — of proving that he was a 
worthy successor to those of his name who had 
preceded him. 

In 1780 the first Erskine had journeyed on horse- 
back from his home in Massachusetts, lured by the 
word “unknown” scrawled on the map over the 
country to the west of Albany; and having passed 
the last block-house fort at a fording of the West 
Canada Creek, had come through rock-seamed 
hills into a lovely, fertile valley. There he had 
camped and shortly made claim to the Government 
for a grant of land. There he had built his house, 
such an one as had never yet been raised west of 
Albany. It took a year to build. The beams were of 
oak, hand-hewn from the forest; the walls of stone 
quarried in the hillside; and all the fittings of the 
interior came the long road from Albany. All the 
fine, hand-wrought wooden moulding, every single 
“egg and dart,” every palmette in wainscot, door, 
or over-mantel, — all was carved in Albany for its 
place in that house which old General Erskine built 
in the wilderness. 

Before the house was finished, its owner was fol- 
lowed by his friend Peter Vanderveld, a Dutch ref- 
ugee of some consequence, who, asking only for 
liberty of thought and conscience, built himself a 
more modest habitation, and these two families so 
founded that village which, in their common love of 
the classics, they called Tacitus. 

Generations had come and gone since that day, 

19 


SHIFTING SANDS 


the old Dutch stock had long since died out, but 
the more sturdy Erskine stock had taken root and 
flourished. 

It was down the delicately bannistered, wide 
staircase of the old house that John Erskine came 
to-day, to be met by old Martha with the grim news 
poured forth in horrified volubility. 

“Good God, woman! And you never called me!” 
His face was stern, his voice indignant. 

“What’s the use o’ callin’ ye for a corpse?” the 
old woman grumbled as she followed him into the 
dining-room. “Naught can happen in this place but 
they won’t have ye in it.” 

“ In it?” John Erskine wheeled to face her. 

The old woman sniffed scornfully, her small eyes 
bright. “Inter everything,” she declared. “It’s 
you they want and you they’ve got to have.” 

“The coffee,” he interrupted, turning away. 
“Nothing else. I must go at once.” 

“There’s no pleasin’ men,” Martha declared 
audibly. “Called me ‘woman,’” she sniffed, as she 
hurried to the kitchen. “Never did I see Mr. John 
in such a way.” She had served in the house since 
he was a baby. 

Alone for a moment, John Erskine stood at the 
mantelpiece, his head upon his crossed arms. The 
only man whom he called his friend in the sense of 
equal, in Tacitus, was dead. Robert Dimmock was 
dead. He raised his head, turned to the whiskey 
decanter on the sideboard, checked himself, then 
20 


SHIFTING SANDS 


stepped to the table and poured himself a glass of 
water which he drank, as Martha entered with the 
tray. She was followed by John Erskine’s house- 
keeper, Miss Roxina Adams, a distant relation 
called “cousin” by courtesy, whose anxious features 
were mottled with emotion. 

“Oh, Cousin John — you’ve heard. What shall 
we do? That poor child. What shall we do?” 

R Before she had ended her questions she wished 
she had held her peace, for John Erskine turned 
a face of still exasperation on her. It frightened her 
into further futile speech, which was checked by a 
sudden outburst from him . His blue eyes were steely. 

“It seems a pity to cultivate emotion at the ex- 
pense of intelligence. If either you or Martha had 
the brains of a polypus you would have called me 
when those men came. Certainly a physician, more 
than any one else, needs some one in his house who 
has judgement enough to interpret his orders.” 

“But you said — ” 

“Of course I said,” he repeated as he rose from 
the table and left the room. 

“If the minister was his friend, he need not be 
takin’ the murder out on us,” Martha grumbled as 
the door closed. “ It were none of our doin’s.” 

“I know Cousin John does not mean to be un- 
kind,” Miss Adams whimpered through her hand- 
kerchief. 

“I am sure that he does when he’s like that,” 
Martha answered shortly. 

21 


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Dr. Erskine passed into the hall, picked up his hat 
and gloves and, straightening his shoulders, faced 
towards the parsonage. As he walked down the 
straight drive between the elm trees from the house 
to the stone gateposts he saw a buggy holding three 
men dash by on the road. The mood of acute exas- 
peration held him. He cursed under his breath the 
rural appetite for horrors. Half the village would be 
on the way — while he must go to the child. Half the 
village — all the men and the older boys freed from 
the small stone schoolhouse would be running, gab- 
bling, hurrying out to see. He cursed them again 
as he crossed the road. 

How many times since his return had he come 
this way to spend an hour with Robert and Mary 
Dimmock. So short a time ago and they both 
awaited him here — Robert his friend and Mary 
with the deep and shadowed beauty. Ah, he had 
fought for her life. He had fought ! He had brought 
all his skill, all the skill of Europe to bear on her case. 
Yet it had baffled him, as it had baffled his masters 
in Paris. He had not saved her. With her hus- 
band he had seen her die — still young, in all her 
faded, touching loveliness. He straightened him- 
self to endure the memory. How she had dreaded 
leaving the child! How the child was doubly be- 
reft. He hastened. For her sake, he was hurrying 
to the child, though other work awaited him. For 
his friend, Robert Dimmock, lay dead — mur- 
dered. He clenched his hands in the pockets of his 
22 


SHIFTING SANDS 


greatcoat. Why had he left the man alone the past 
night! why had he left him! The thought was tor- 
ture. His head bent, he steadily mounted the stone 
steps to the parsonage. 

“ Dr. Erskine — oh — Dr. Erskine” — came in a 
low cry. “It’s Jean — here — here — the old ar- 
bour.” 

He stopped on the gravelled path, raised a hand 
to show that he had heard, and struck across the 
grass to the trees. There, stooping, he pushed 
his way through the branches into the small in- 
terior space and straightened himself to his full 
height. 

Jean stood before him, a small, quiet, tense fig- 
ure in a straight black dress, made by the village 
dressmaker for her mother’s funeral. Too narrow 
across the chest, and too scant in the skirt, the gar- 
ment made her look younger than her twelve years. 
She did not seem to have been crying, but gazed 
straight at him out of her black-lashed clear grey 
eyes. Her hair fell in a black disorder about her 
small white face. She had been just a child to him 
before, just the child of her father and mother, with 
none of the little flattering ways which invite atten- 
tion, none of the beauty which attracts caresses and 
admiration. Suddenly as his eyes met that wide, 
intense gaze, she took on individuality, became a 
personality to him. 

“Jean” — John Erskine’s voice was shaken — • 
“what are you doing here?” 

23 


SHIFTING SANDS 


She did not answer, but the blank desolation in 
her face seemed to deepen. 

“Jeanie,” he repeated, holding out his hands. 
He was stirred to the depths by the desolate stillness 
of her face. 

She came forward obediently, an excited light 
growing in her eyes. 

“ Don’t make me go to the house,” she begged. 
“ 1 can’t. Indeed, I can’t.” A sob rose in her throat 
and choked her. 

“Of course not,” he answered firmly. “Just be 
quiet and tell me the trouble. You can.” 

“I know,” she repeated with a lesser sob. “I 
don’t mind Beena — much. But Mrs. Beebe has 
come, and now other people have come, and I — 
can’t bear — it. I ran away. I came out here and 
hid at once, and lots have gone in since. I have seen 
them — all whispering together — and talking. Oh, 
they have no right — they have no right. They are 
not mamma’s friends — nor papa’s friends.” 

She was shivering from head to foot with excite- 
ment. “I am afraid,” she rushed on, “that they 
will tell me things. I don’t want to hear things — 
don’t let them tell me things. I don’t want to know, 
if it’s awful.” 

The doctor turned abruptly away. For a moment 
he stood rigid, his eyes on the ground, then he 
turned back, his face white and drawn. 

“My poor child,” he said. He took her hands, 
looking down at her. “I know what you mean — 
24 


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I understand your feelings. But all these people 
who are going to the house mean to be very kind. 
They respected and loved your father and mother 
and they are very fond of you, and they want to 
show it.” 

“ I can’t go in; I can’t,” she began again, pushing 
him away. 

“ No,” he said ; “ I do not wish you to. I would not 
allow you to. But you shall come with me, over to my 
study, and there you shall be safe for the rest of the 
day. You shall see no one if you do not like.” 

“Jean — Jean — Jeanie!” 

The cry was repeated in several tones, meant to 
be reassuring and coaxing. 

The child clung to the doctor’s arm. 

“You see! They are coming — it’s Mrs. Beebe. 
What shall I do?” 

The doctor peered through the branches. 

“It’s all right,” he said. “They are going the 
other way. Come — we have time to escape ! Give 
me your hand.” 

He parted the branches and led her out, talking 
to her quietly, and so bore her safely in the shadow 
of the hemlock trees, down the steps and across the 
road. Jean hardly knew what had happened before 
she found herself inside the stone gateposts, walk- 
ing down the avenue at John Erskine’s side. And 
in spite of the lethargy of sorrow upon her, it was 
almost with awe that she approached the house. It 
had been the wonder house of many childish dreams. 

25 


SHIFTING SANDS 


Its pillared front had risen mysterious through the 
trees. What though the wide stone steps were 
cracked and lichened, and the white paint had scaled 
in places from the lofty Doric columns — some- 
thing told her that it was beautiful. 

John Erskine led her up those steps between the 
pillars, opened the great front door and led her into 
the wide hall papered, above the white wainscot, 
with an Arcadian landscape in faded greens. The 
floor was covered with white China matting, and 
against one wall stood a narrow, crystal-knobbed 
mahogany table bearing a red-and-blue bowl, dragon- 
wreathed, of old Bristol ware. Opposite the front 
door a window on the low landing of the wide stair- 
case looked out on budding trees. 

The picture struck so vividly upon the child’s 
subconscious mind that, though hardly seeing it at 
the time, she remembered it all her life, even to the 
bar of pale April sunlight that struck through 
the window upon a little panniered shepherdess in 
the Arcadian fields. 

Down the hall the doctor passed in a stride to his 
own especial room to the left at the back, where 
light was not robbed by the deep Doric front porch. 
He flung open the door. 

“ There,” he said, and the child passed in. No 
one could have called it a cheerful room. It was 
dark, but it was quiet and restful, and, once there, 
it put the visitor into a receptive mood for all it 
suggested and contained. Something of this the 
26 


SHIFTING SANDS 

child felt as John pressed her into a deep, blue- 
covered settle before the wood-fire. 

“Sit down and get warm.” 

He felt her little hands with his firm, skilled fin- 
gers. “You’re cold, chilled. I’ll be back in a min- 
ute.” He left her — anything that he could do was 
so little ! 

He returned with a steaming glass on a tray. She 
shook her head, turning away. 

“Oh, yes,” he said coaxingly. “You’ve had no 
breakfast. Why, I made it! I would not let Martha!” 

She looked up into his face. “Must I?” 

“You must.” 

She took the glass and drank it slowly. “It’s 
very good,” she said with a little gasp. “Thank you 
very much.” Then she sat still again, her hands 
clasped in her lap, her black hair falling about her 
pale face. 

For a moment he stood gazing down on her, 
then, bending over her, he laid his hand firmly 
on hers. 

“ I must go. Keep warm and ” — he waited for 
her to look up and held her grey eyes sternly with 
his own of clear blue — “do not cry. I shall be 
back soon.” 

He turned and went out quickly. In the hall he 
met Miss Adams, hovering about ineffectually. He 
stopped, speaking kindly. “Go to Jean Dimmock, 
Cousin Roxina. She is in my study. Talk to her — 
keep her from thinking if you can. On no account 

27 


SHIFTING SANDS 


mention anything that has taken place. I shall be 
back as soon as possible.” 

The buggy was waiting. He climbed in, and in a 
moment, after stopping at the parsonage to assure 
Beena of Jean’s safety, turned the horses’ heads 
towards the distant cemetery. 


CHAPTER III 


Miss Roxina approached the door of the study with 
misgivings. The minister’s child had never been 
easy to know, a shy child with a self-possession that 
embarrassed such elders as made well-meaning but 
perfunctory advances. 

“She looks at you so,” Miss Roxina thought help- 
lessly; “ 1 am sure that I don’t know what to say.” 

But her kind heart overcame her self-conscious 
fears, and repeating to herself the encouraging 
words, “Poor child — the poor child,” she entered 
the study and trotted quietly down the room, with 
her mending-basket on her arm. She tried to look 
cheerful, but not too cheerful, and to give an every- 
day tone to her voice as she said : — 

“ I have brought my work in to be with you, my 
dear. I have so much mending. Cousin John is very 
hard on his clothes.” 

Jean, shrinking from sympathy, raised hostile 
eyes, but, reading with a child’s keenness the nerv- 
ousness in the old lady’s face, her expression changed 
as she rose. 

“May I help you?” Her voice was toneless, but 
her manner was polite. 

“That’s a nice little girl. ’Spose we sit in the 
ends of the settee with the basket between us. You 
might wind this worsted. I have been meanin’ to 
29 


SHIFTING SANDS 


do it.” She paused. A child in such sorrow — it 
hardly seemed natural to ask it. 

The child read her thought. “I’d like to,” she 
said, and sat down primly, her hands full of the soft 
tangle of coloured wools. 

Miss Roxina took heart to babble on. “This room 
is always so pleasant. I am not often here. It ’s the 
doctor’s private room — not his consulting-room. 
It ’s a very good idea, I think, to have the office and 
dispensary in a separate building. It was Cousin 
James’s — that’s Cousin John’s father — who had 
the building erected when he took the practice here, 
fifty years ago.” 

She kept an eye on the child, whose deft fingers 
wrought among the vividly coloured tangled skeins. 

“That’s how it came to be built in the corner of 
the garden with the entrance on Lower Street. You 
see, fifty years ago it was considered below a gentle- 
man’s dignity to be a doctor of medicine. Cousin 
James’s father did not approve, but Cousin James 
would do it, and as a compromise, to keep the busi- 
ness of it out of his home, he built the office. Things 
have changed in fifty years. No one said anything 
when Cousin John wanted to be a doctor. Of 
course he is a deal cleverer than his father. So 
young and yet he has written a book that has been 
translated into French and German!” 

The child looked up. There was a faint, a very 
faint contempt in her mind for this rather silly old 
lady. As if she had not known for ages about the 
30 


SHIFTING SANDS 


doctor and the doctor's cleverness and the doctor’s 
book ! Had she not listened unnoticed for hours to- 
gether, while her father and her mother and the doc- 
tor talked and talked ! 

At the memory, her hands shut hard on the 
wool. But the doctor had said that she must not cry. 
She would not. Miss Roxina Adams was talking 
steadily. 

“ Do you see all that bookcase over there? The one 
by the door — it is full of French and German books. 
Cousin John is very well-educated. He can read 
them without a dictionary. I often see him. He 
sets great store on his books. He’s always buying 
more, though, as I say to Martha, he never can have 
read all he’s got. But he keeps buying. There’s a 
stack on that table now — all new ones he has n’t 
had time to look into. Books and fishin’ — those 
are his hobbies — and harmless enough they are for 
a young man — for he is young, dear. Thirty-one 
on his last birthday. You never would have said at 
eighteen that he’d sober down as he has. John was 
a wild boy. Cousin James — his father — was very 
anxious. No harm — but he was always getting into 
scrapes — and he had a name at college for his mad 
goings on — yet folks have learned to trust him 
here. They do set a heap of store by him now. He 
don’t get much time for fishin’. Those are his rods 
in the corner and his flies in that Chinese cabinet, 
and he has n’t taken ’em out in I don’t know when.” 
She paused, but getting no response from the bent 
3i 


SHIFTING SANDS 


head she hurried on. “Yes — I do like this room. 
Yet I don’t know why. It is too dark. As I tell him, 
a new red carpet instead of this old rug — ” 

“Oh!” Jean exclaimed. 

The old lady paused. “You like it? It’s a dingy- 
looking old thing, I think. The colour’s all faded 
out. Blue’s a funny colour for curtains, too, as dark 
a blue as that — Yet it’s a real homey room for 
sittin’, is n’t it? The best parlour now is a handsome 
room. Those gentlemen who study old houses are 
always travelling here to see it. One came only last 
week from Buffalo — said it was the finest fireplace 
outside Virginia. It is n’t used much. My sitting- 
room is upstairs.” 

She stopped for a moment to cast a glance at the 
child bent over the worsted and went on, launched 
upon her favourite topic. 

“Of course his family think, my dear, that he is 
wasted here in Tacitus. When I was in .Boston in 
the winter, I was with his sister, Mrs. Winthrop 
Gray, she that was Marian Erskine. Such a beauti- 
ful house they have! Or rather two, I should say, 
one on Beacon Street, and a great country house at 
Pride’s Crossing, with thirty bedrooms and a tiled 
bathroom for every two! You never saw anything 
like it! It must have taken millions to build. And 
full of the most wonderful things. Pictures and — 
well, I can’t begin to tell you — ” her blue-veined 
hands flew at the memory. “They were so kind to 
me. You see, I am only Mrs. James Erskine’s (John’s 
32 


SHIFTING SANDS 


mother’s) second cousin by marriage, so really no re- 
lation to the Erskines. But the first families are like 
that, I have found. They are proud enough, you 
see, to acknowledge all their poor relations. Every 
tree has some low branches, so old Madam Erskine 
— that’s Cousin John’s grandmother — used to 
say. She had a grand way, too, when she said it.” 
The old lady paused. “Where was I? Oh, about 
Cousin John. His sister, and all of them said, when I 
was there, what a shame it was that he should waste 
himself in this village when he might be famous in 
New York or Boston or abroad. They said he was a 
real Quixote.” 

In the joy of the topic which was dearest to her — 
John and his family — Cousin Roxina had forgotten 
that Jean was the minister’s child, that she was a 
mourner, bereft. 

“You see, his idea was, that a man owes a duty to 
his own country and place, and that’s why he came 
back.” She paused to cast her eyes on Jean, little 
knowing that the child had heard this very subject 
discussed between the doctor and her parents, and 
leaned nearer, looking over her glasses. 

“Why are you leaving the red wool, dear?” 

“I — don’t like it. It is so — unpleasant.” 

Miss Roxina Adams could not believe her ears. 
“Unpleasant!” She laid her hand over the wool, 
gathering it up and patting Jean’s hand soothingly. 
“There, we’ve had enough of work.” 

“But I have not finished,” the child protested. 

33 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“ I ’d rather finish ; truly I was just keeping the red till 
the end. I ’d really like to finish. It’s so horrid leav- 
ing things half-done. Please.” 

Miss Roxina was puzzled, but the firm, slender 
hands had taken possession of the wool again, and 
Jean with lowered head was tackling the tangle of 
violent red. 

“That red that you don’t like,” Miss Roxina went 
on, “the doctor don’t like either. I had it by mistake, 
from Boston with a packet of other wools.” 

Jean looked up gravely. “If it was mine,” she 
said, “I would burn it.” 

“Burn it!” Miss Roxina looked thoroughly 
shocked. “It will make a nice warm comforter for 
some poor child,” she said reprovingly. 

Jean sat back in her corner, the ball of wool wound 
in her hand. She looked at it. It was hideous. The 
other colours hated it so. She buried it out of sight 
at the bottom of the basket, arranging the other 
balls on top. 

Miss Roxina’s thoughts had returned to the glories 
of Boston. She had forgotten Jean, till recalled by her 
voice. 

“Have you anything else that I can do? To help? 
I can sew quite well, so” — she stopped — mother 
had said — she gulped it down — “so please let me.” 
She spoke quickly, for thoughts were hammering at 
the back of her brain. What was happening? What 
was happening? Where had the doctor gone? Who 
were talking in those darkened rooms across the way? 

34 


SHIFTING SANDS 


What were they saying? What had they found? 
What was happening? 

Suddenly all triviality became intolerable. She 
started up. “ I must go,” she faltered. “ I can’t talk 
— I can’t do anything.” 

The old lady rose. The child’s misery was ap- 
parent. John had once said that the minister’s child 
was highly strung, sensitive, delicate. 

“ I think,” she said, alarmed, “you had better come 
with me. The doctor seems late, and you’re tired.” 

“ No — no — ” a rush of words interrupted. “ I’ll 
wait here — I’m not tired. I ’m really not. I don’t 
mind being alone. I ’d rather. I shall be all right. 
Please let me wait here.” 

Troubled and not at all understanding, yet with 
sense enough to know that the child should not be 
crossed, the old lady gathered up her work and de- 
parted in a flutter. 

Once alone, the child sat down in the armchair, 
propped her elbows upon the writing-table, put her 
thumbs in her ears, her fingers pressed against her 
eyes, and stoically waited. The time seemed inter- 
minable. 

Finally the door opened and closed abruptly. A 
decided footfall crossed the floor and Jean started up 
as John Erskine reached her side. He read all the 
signs of tension in her. He laid a firm hand on the 
thin shoulder, yet the touch was gentle. 

“You may cry now, my child,” he said in a deep, 
choked voice. “You must cry.” 

35 


SHIFTING SANDS 


The understanding broke her self-control. Blinded 
by tears she threw herself face downward among the 
cushions of the blue settle and John Erskine sank on 
his knees on the floor beside her. 


CHAPTER IV 


The sewing-circle of the Unitarian Church of Taci- 
tus met in Maria Beebe’s parlour on the very day 
after Mr. Dimmock’s funeral. The date had been set 
some weeks ago, before the tragedy, and no one 
thought of changing it. 

At half-past two the hostess stood in the centre of 
the room, giving a final look around her before the 
arrival of her guests. A satisfied smile rested on her 
harsh, hard-featured face. The room symbolised to 
her ambitious soul much of conflict and hard endea- 
vour, crowned by success. 

It was she, not her husband, who had invested an 
unexpected legacy in the store across the street. It 
was her shrewdness and economy which had built up 
the business until the stock was so varied and well 
chosen that the Tacitus people seldom needed to 
journey to the neighbouring town of Attica to supply 
their wants. For twenty years she had kept the books 
and waited behind the counter and been content 
with rooms above the store, and it was finally she who 
had stepped in and, before any one in the county 
knew what had happened, had bought the old Van- 
derveld house and its contents. Since that day, she 
had been no more seen at the store. She had realised 
the fitness of things, and now rocked on her own 
piazza overlooking the street, in chairs that had 
37 


SHIFTING SANDS 


belonged to her betters, or sat on winter evenings in 
old Madame Vanderveld’s parlour, grimly exultant, 
little knowing how out of place she looked in her sur- 
roundings. 

Now, as she glanced about the room it was not the 
shape or colour of the old mahogany furniture that 
pleased her, — though she was sharp enough to rate 
it at its commercial value, — but her own efforts at 
“ brightening up ” ; knitted mats of coloured wool lay 
on the shelves of the Chippendale cupboard, under 
small blue vases of paper flowers, scarves, which 
she called “throws,” hid the beautiful grain and 
polish of tables and chair-backs, a plush lambrequin 
of peacock blue obscured the simple lines of the high 
white mantel, and Nottingham lace curtains draped 
the windows. It looked right to Maria, and she 
smoothed down the folds of her dress with quick 
nervous pats of content as she hurried to intercept 
her new Irish servant on her way to the front door. 

“ Bridget,” she said, “ if it’s Mrs. Donner, show her 
up to the best bedroom to lay off her things. If it is 
only Miss Meeks, she can take 'em off in the hall.” 

Red-headed Bridget paused, gaping, — 

“An' if it be’ant ayther?” 

The bell sounded again. Without answering, 
Maria somewhat grandly waved Bridget on to the 
door and withdrew. She had a sense of social values 
that could not only distinguish between people, but 
communities, and which had led her from the fold of 
the Methodist Church in Lower Street to that of the 
38 


SHIFTING SANDS 


Unitarian Church which stood between the old Van- 
derveld house and the parsonage on Upper Street. 
The Unitarian Church was tacitly acknowledged to 
be the most genteel. It had arisen on the demand 
and on the endowment of a generation of Erskines 
who had shared the mental awakening in the fifties, 
and who insisted upon worshipping the one God as 
a proof of their intellectual selectness. Of this Maria 
knew nothing. Indeed, her taste preferred the vigor- 
ous prayers and exhortations and the lusty singing in 
the small theatre-like room of the brown Methodist 
Church to the colder methods and formulas of the 
service in the Unitarian Church, whose spired white- 
ness, spaced by tall green shuttered windows and 
shaded by giant elms, did not appeal to her taste. 

The door opened and her first guest entered; neither 
Mrs. Donner nor Miss Meeks, the village dressmaker, 
but Mrs. Spiller, the wife of the undertaker. 

Mrs. Spiller w r as small and gentle. Her grey hair 
was parted over a timid face. She was dressed in 
black. She wes on the outer edge of Mrs. Beebe’s 
circle and w r as accorded a correspondingly cool wel- 
come. She w r as overpowered at being the first to ar- 
rive, sat dowm in the chair indicated by Maria’s thin 
and knotted forefinger, folded her cotton-gloved 
hands in her lap, and wished that some one else 
would come. She answered Maria’s condescending 
questions about her husband and children, and then, 
as the conversation languished, she ventured a re- 
mark: — 


39 


SHIFTING SANDS 


* ‘Sad events have been happenin' in our midst." 

‘‘Very,’’ Maria answered in a tone of stern disap- 
proval, which sounded as if she felt Mr. and Mrs. 
Dimmock’s deaths as an intentional affront to her- 
self. She picked up her crocheting and looked out 
of the window with severe lips. She did not wish to 
touch upon this subject until she had a more select 
audience. 

Mrs. Spiller felt snubbed, grew hot all over, re- 
membered that Mrs. Beebe “was n’t anybody, after 
all," tried to profit by the assurance to stiffen her 
backbone, but failed when she found that lady’s cold 
eye again upon her, and the two remained silent 
until the door opened to admit several women who 
came together. 

As might have been expected in a village where 
sensations were few, the meeting was the largest of 
the year. The parlour was full of women who gradu- 
ally drew into groups and settled down to sew — in 
the dining-room the cutting-out committee was busy 
chattering over the table. But the corner of the elect 
was certainly the bow window where Maria sat sur- 
rounded. The small group about her spoke low, but 
with sufficient vehemence to silence the canary in the 
gilded cage above their heads. They recounted the 
story of Mr. Dimmock’s murder with subdued dis- 
simulated gusto, embellishing their facts with many 
flights of gruesome fancy, and not until every detail 
had been rehearsed and debated did they pause. 

“What makes me the maddest," Maria declared, 
40 


SHIFTING SANDS 


Spots of red burning on her high cheek-bones, “is 
that them as did it's going to get away.” 

“Yes,” Mrs. Donner agreed with a sigh, laying 
down her work. “I b’lieve they be.” She was very 
stout and breathless. “ I b’lieve they be.” 

“There isn’t a clue,” Maria went on, frowning 
slightly at Mrs. Donner ’s grammatical slip. Her own 
English was far from perfect, but she had corrected 
the more glaring faults current in Tacitus speech. 
“Not a clue, so Mr. Beebe says.” 

“Mr. Donner says the same,” Mrs. Donner cor- 
roborated, creaking in her chair. “The perlice down 
to Attica have n’t anything to work on. It does n’t 
seem right, nohow, that they should get off scot-free, 
whoever they be.” 

Lillian Vincent, a refined-looking girl of twenty, 
whose outlook on life was wider than that of the 
others, and who felt vaguely ashamed of the relish 
with which her companions pursued the conversa- 
tion, looked up. 

“ I hope,” she said, “that it’s true that Jean does 
not know. Mother was at the house this morning and 
Martha told her that Dr. Erskine had forbidden the 
subject to be mentioned in the house.” 

Maria sniffed. “It won’t be possible to keep it 
from her,” she said acidly. “Sooner or later she’s 
bound to hear, and it had better be sooner, I think. 
It’s all very well, while she’s visitin’ him, — you 
know she’s been sleepin’ there since it happened, — 
but when she leaves — then what?” 

4i 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“ Don’t you know?” Lillian asked quickly. 

The needles hung suspended. All the eyes were 
fixed upon her. 

“What?” 

“She is to live with the doctor,” she said. 

“For the Lord’s sake,” Mrs. Donner gasped. 

The silence of the other ladies was no less eloquent. 

“To live?” asked Miss Meeks in an incredulous 
voice. 

Maria bridled. “Are you sure, Lillian Vincent?” 
she asked. 

Lillian smiled. “Yes, sure,” she said. “I thought 
every one knew. Martha told mother. The doctor 
saw Jean’s only relation, a cousin from New York, 
after the funeral yesterday.” 

“The man with the grey mustache,” wheezed 
Mrs. Donner. 

“ I wondered who he was,” Miss Meeks added. ^ 

“What else did Martha say?” Mrs. Beebe asked 
impatiently. 

Lillian laughed. “ Nothing — except how good the 
doctor is, of course. It was such a chance for her, the 
poor dear.” 

The other needles had resumed their course, but 
Maria’s was still paralysed. 

“But Beena?” she asked, still incredulous. 

“Beena is going back to New England after the 
packing is done. Poor Beena — I don’t think she 
could stand Tacitus without Mrs. Dimmock.” 

Maria sniffed audibly and disdainfully. * 

42 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“ Tacitus can't stand her,” she said angrily. “The 
airs the woman puts on.” 

Lillian looked up, protesting. 

“But she was so devoted to them. It's sad, I 
think. She seems quite broken since it happened.” 

“On the contrary,” Maria cried maliciously, “I 
thought I had never seen her as stiff as she was 
yesterday, and there at the head of the coffin, too, 
as if she was one of the family.” * 

“She was with Jean,” Lillian cried indignantly. 

“Well, did you notice Jean?” Miss Meeks put in 
with bated breath, bending across her work and 
peering around the little circle. Then as she met 
denial, “What, you did n’t?” 

“What?” they all cried. 

Miss Meeks emitted the breath. “Of all things! 
Do you mean to say that I was the only one who 
noticed?” She was delighted. Long experience had 
made her proficient in the art of creating these small 
effects. Her audience was breathless. 

“ It was during the discourse,” she began impres- 
sively; “and I must say that I never heard a finer 
funeral oration. I was sitting — p’r’aps you saw — 
close to the family and p’r’aps the end of the coffin 
cut Jean off from the rest of the room — for I could 
just see her. Well, — will you believe it? — when 
the minister got to the part where he rehearsed the 
deceased’s virtues, as a husband and a father all 
that, it was beautiful — Jean — put her fingers in 
her ears!” 


43 


SHIFTING SANDS 


A shocked chorus greeted her words. 

“An unnatural child,” Mrs. Donner said, fatly 
solemn. 

Lillian looked helpless and uncomfortable. 

“Are you sure, Miss Meeks?” she said. 

“I am always most careful in my statements, 
Miss Vincent. A person in my position, goin’ from 
house to house, has to be.” 

“It was because she was so unhappy,” Lillian 
said. 

“Unhappy ! ” Maria’s tone was sharp. “ It ought 
to have comforted her to hear the praise of her dead 
father. I agree with Mrs. Donner.” 

“She was always odd,” Lillian said weakly. 

“The time I had making that black dress of hers,” 
Miss Meeks went on. “She told me it was wicked 
to wear black clothes — that the heathen somewhere 
were more Christian than us.” 

“What?” cried the fat voice of Mrs. Donner, 
shocked again. 

“Because they don’t wear mourning,” Miss 
Meeks explained. 

Lillian bit her lip, pushed her chair back slightly, 
folding her work. 

Maria was not dull. She took the hint and rose. 

“Have you heard, ladies?” she said, turning 
sharply to the roomful of women. “Little Jean Dim- 
mock is to live with Dr. Erskine.” 

The Babel of excited surprise was only ended with 
the appearance of Bridget heralding the food. 


CHAPTER V 


It could hardly have been chance which led young 
Rufus Haines, the schoolmaster, past Maria Beebe’s 
just as the ladies of the sewing-circle were leaving, 
since in so small a place as Tacitus a function so im- 
portant was known to the most retiring inhabitant. 

And Rufus Haines was far from retiring. As he 
blithely put it to himself, he was out for all he could 
get, whether it were work or play, in the shape of a 
scrub baseball game in the lower “lot,” a choir prac- 
tice, or a talk with a pretty girl. Just now his eyes 
were very busy under the brim of his stiff hat, as he 
watched for Lillian Vincent and timed his pace to 
exactly come up with her as she came down the 
steps. Then, with no lack of confidence, he saluted 
her. 

“Good-evening, Miss Vincent. Been sewing for 
the heathen? May I walk a little way with you?” 

“Good-evening.” Lillian’s face flushed pink. 
“Yes — no — that is, not the heathen.” She was 
conscious that Mrs. Donner, who was wheezing 
down behind her, had heard the blithe request. 

But young Haines had already seen the farmer’s 
wife, and with his usual smiling sureness had turned 
with a word of apology from Lillian to the older 
woman. 

“Let me help you into the buggy, ma’am.” His 
45 


SHIFTING SANDS 


ready word and laugh had already made him, 
though a newcomer, a favourite in Tacitus. Mrs. 
Donner, though jealous for her absent son at this 
moment, found herself turning an indulgent eye 
upon him, as, having assisted her into the waiting 
vehicle, he placed the reins in her fat hands. 

“ Don’t let him run away with you,” he said gaily, 
and his manner made the very mild joke amusing. 
She nodded her thanks to him as she spoke to 
Lillian. 

“How ’s your ma, Lillian? Now that the spring ’s 
cornin’ you must spend the day with us. Bring your 
sewin’ ! The men-folks are awful busy takin’ in the 
old wood lot, though I say the farm ’s big enough for 
us and our children. But Dave will have it; Dave is 
sot.” 

“By the way,” Mr. Haines broke in, “ask your 
son to be sure not to miss choir practice on Saturday 
night. We ’ll have the whole Sunday service on our 
shoulders and he has the best voice of the bunch.” 

Mrs. Donner stiffened, starting her horse. “I 
’low he’s cornin’,” she said drily. “ If not ’t will be 
the first choir practice his mother’s ever known him 
to miss. Night, Lillian.” She flapped the reins and 
drove away. 

Young Haines whistled. “Did n’t like my taking 
command, did she?” 

“You can’t blame her,” Lillian answered, laugh- 
ing. “After all, Mr. Rufus Haines has only been in 
Tacitus — let me see — six months, is it?” 

46 


SHIFTING SANDS 

“Oh, come now, Miss Vincent. It’s nearly a 
year.” 

“Well, a year, then. But David has kept the 
choir together for years. He never seems to lead be- 
cause he never says anything.” 

“Not like yours truly, eh, Miss Vincent?” the 
young man spoke ruefully. “ I s’pose I am a talker. 
Oh, Dave’s a fine fellow.” His voice was less en- 
thusiastic now. 

Lillian noticed it and changed the subject. 

“Have you heard about Jean Dimmock?” 

They were crossing the square to the road which 
ran out on the other side where in a small green- 
shuttered white cottage Lillian lived with her 
mother. 

“What? Not more trouble, I hope?” 

“On the contrary. She is going to live with Dr. 
Erskine.” 

Rufus Haines stopped short. “Say, you know,” 
he exclaimed, “ain’t he great! I call that blamed 
fine! Takin’ that kid. What’s he want with a kid in 
the house? He’s white, he is!” His tone of whole- 
hearted admiration spoke more forcibly than his 
words. “Yes, sir,” he ended up, “he’s a man — all 
wool and a yard wide.” 

“I had n’t thought of it like that,” Lillian said. 
“ I suppose it would be rather a sacrifice for a young 
man — taking her. Somehow, Dr. Erskine — ” 

“Of course it’s a sacrifice,” the other declared; 
“especially for a physician who wants the little time 
47 


SHIFTING SANDS 


he’s got at home free. But I suppose he felt he 
wanted to do it. Mr. and Mrs. Dimmock were 
friends of his, were n’t they? He’ll miss them.” 

“Yes, indeed,” Lillian agreed gravely; “he will 
miss them. I never knew Mr. Dimmock much, but 
I got to know Mrs. Dimmock a little when I first 
came back from school. I admired her more than 
any one I have ever known, I think.” 

“She was always the lady,” Rufus Haines agreed, 
“and was nice to look at.” 

“Was n’t she? ” Lillian’s voice was low. “ I loved 
everything about her. Her smooth, black hair and 
great dark eyes and her small head. Jean is just 
like her. And her hands, and her nice way of doing 
things, and her dresses.” A lump rose in her throat. 
“She was awfully good to me. I shall never forget 
it.” 

“Trust you,” he said kindly. 

“You know the story about her family, don’t 
you?” she went on. “Her grandfather was a Span- 
ish noble. When he was a young man he had some- 
thing to do with the first Carlist rising and escaped 
to America to save his life. He fell in love with a 
New England girl and married her and settled in 
Salem. It’s from him that Mrs. Dimmock, and 
Jean, too, I suppose, get their black hair and pale 
complexions.” She paused. “Mr. Dimmock had 
terrible moods. When I heard he was dead, the first 
thing I thought was that he’s killed himself.” 

“No,” the young man said, “it was murder right 
48 


SHIFTING SANDS 


enough. But, say, this is n’t very gay. I did n’t ask 
to walk home with you to talk about other people. 
Let’s drop it. We are much more interesting to 
ourselves than any one else can be. Is n’t that 
so?” 

“Oh, but how selfish!” 

“Of course. But, look here, don’t you think, if 
you are truthful, that every one is selfish?” 

“Oh, no!” Lillian protested. “Look at my 
mother!” 

“Oh, but she has you. Seems to me you ’d make 
any one unselfish.” 

“How absurd. Oh, Mr. Haines, I’ve got that 
song you spoke of the other day.” 

“Good!” His boyish face was round and ruddily 
handsome and his brown eyes sparkled. “When will 
you sing it for me?” 

Lillian paused at the door. “Are you busy this 
evening?” 

“Busy!” he laughed frankly and ruefully, show- 
ing white teeth. 

“Then come in about half-past seven. We can 
have some music together.” 

“Right-o! That’ll be corking. Good-night. Re- 
gards to your mother.” He lifted his hat and walked 
off with a quick, light step, humming, as Lillian 
opened the door and went in. 

Mrs. Vincent sat by the centre table, which was 
set for supper, working by the red-globed central 
lamp. She was a slight, sweet-faced, sentimental 
49 


SHIFTING SANDS 

woman of forty-five whose life was centred in her 
daughter. 

Nursing an innocent but fervent ambition for the 
girl, she had spent most of her small capital in send- 
ing her away to school and lived in the daily expec- 
tation of the moment when by some wizardry of 
circumstance Lillian should fulfil her hopes. 

Like most sentimentalists Mrs. Vincent closed her 
eyes to facts. She did not see that no voyage into 
the unknown would ever lure Lillian. She did not 
realise that the unexpected comes only to those who 
breathlessly expect, and that Lillian never expected. 
Ignorant of the predestined baulking of her ambi- 
tions, Mrs. Vincent looked up smiling. 

‘‘What a nice breath of fresh air you bring in. 
Well, were there many there? Who came to the door 
with you?” x 

“Mr. Haines. I asked him in this evening.” 

The mother did not respond, so the girl went on, 
as she took off her things, with a shade of contempt 
in her voice, “Of course, there was a crowd. And, 
of course, they all talked of one thing. It made 
me ashamed. Mrs. Beebe is really dreadful; Mrs. 
Donner was about as bad, but she’s such a dear old 
thing, somehow you know there ’s no malice in her, 
and you don’t mind.” 

“Was Miss Roxina there?” 

“No. I told you she would n’t go. She does not 
mind a bit of gossip, but after all she is a lady and 
she can’t stand Maria Beebe any more than you 
50 


SHIFTING SANDS 


can. All the church people were there. She gave us 
good refreshments — angel cake, not as light as 
yours, but good — and sponge and fruit and tea 
and chocolate. Oh, it was very grand.” 

“ Shall you change your dress? ” her mother called, 
as Lillian went out to put away her hat and coat, 
“or keep on what you’ve got, since Mr. Haines is 
coming?” 

Lillian’s voice came laughingly back from the 
stairs, “Of course I’m going to change. I can’t 
waste my best dress on him.”* 


CHAPTER VI 


A thrilling sense of living, of the unusual in the 
happenings in which she was involved, did much to 
help the child Jean Dimmock to fight the desolating 
grief of those early days. The sense of drama was 
strong in her, and an objective Jean was ever before 
her eyes playing her part in a moving spectacle. 
There was none of the grown-up, conscious pride 
in peculiar misfortune in her attitude, but a sense 
of exhilaration as of swift movement after stagna- 
tion. 

When, after the funeral, she knew that she was to 
continue to live, for the present, anyway, in the 
house across the road, a glow, born of her vivid 
imagination, enveloped her, and sent the colour to 
her face. She stood looking up at John Erskine with 
shining eyes. The cousin from New York did not 
feel that it was necessary to ask if she was pleased. 
Now, twenty-four hours having served to turn 
novelty into accepted fact, other thoughts had be- 
gun to stir, all centring about the man who sat at 
his writing-table near her. 

He was not thinking of her, had hardly seemed 
to notice her when she came in, — and she took 
advantage of this, to stare, with a child’s frank 
scrutiny, her book neglected in her lap. 

She wondered why she liked so much to look at 
52 


SHIFTING SANDS 


him. He was not handsome. His hair was thick and 
short and dark. His forehead was square and his 
eyebrows broad and thick, with up-and-down lines 
between them. His eyes were very blue, — some- 
times hard and sometimes very kind. His nose was 
nice, high-bridged and strong, but his upper lip was 
long and scarcely indented. The mouth was clever, 
the chin strong with a cleft in it. 

No — he was not handsome and Jean loved 
beauty. “But there’s something that makes me 
want to look at him,” she said to herself, gazing 
with her chin on her hand over the arm of the deep 
armchair. “He looks as if he could make any one 
do anything,” she decided. “That’s why he’s nice 
to look at ; wobbly people are horrid, even when they 
are handsome.” 

And she was to live with him. He, not her cousin, 
she felt, had decided it. But wh^? Something, a 
little sinking certainty, told her that it was from no 
especial interest in herself. He had paid her less 
attention than any of the people who came — over 
there. He had never talked to her, had nodded with- 
out smiling when he came in, and had sat quickly 
down to talk with her parents. Her sad little face 
wore a puzzled frown. It was very odd — why had 
he asked her? Perhaps he did not really want her — 
perhaps — no one in the whole world really wanted 
her! 

John Erskine moved, frowned, threw back his 
shoulders which stooped, lifted his head and became 
53 


SHIFTING SANDS 


aware of the child’s fixed regard, of the grey eyes’ 
grave, pained enquiry. He frowned again. 

“What is it?” The question was abrupt, weary. 

The child started. “I was only thinking.” 

She saw him make an effort, then the stern mouth 
smiled. “Thinking of what? You know we are to 
be friends, Jean. The first principle of friendship is 
liberty — liberty of thought, and of speech — and 
above all of silence. You are to talk when you like, 
be silent when you like. But I am interested in your 
thoughts and I expect you to be interested in mine.” 

She nodded. “I don’t mind telling you,” she be- 
gan. “I think I was thinking, first, that that man, 
my cousin, did not try to pretend that he wanted me, 
and I was wondering how it would have felt to have 
had to go with him. And then I was thinking whether 
you really wanted me” — the small figure was 
erect, quivering, the small face white and set. “Do 
you?” 

“Do I?” There was an instant’s pause. His face 
was very kind, but his voice changed suddenly to 
the peremptory sternness which his patients knew as 
he answered firmly, “ I do. You hear? Ido.” Then 
his tone changed to kindness again. “ I forbid you to 
ask yourself that question. I want you. For yourself, 
because we are to be friends, and — for other things. 
You believe me?” 

She drew a long breath. “Yes — thank you.” 

Her prim little manner delighted him. 

“That was all?” He felt for his pipe. There was 
54 


SHIFTING SANDS 


silence. The pipe found and filled and lighted, he 
glanced at her. “Was that all you were thinking?” 

She coloured vividly under his scrutiny. 

“Something else? Come, let us have it.” 

She paused, drew a long breath as if taking cour- 
age, then hurried on. “ It was only about yesterday. 
I was afraid — I thought, perhaps, — oh, it ’s so hard 
to explain. But if you noticed what I did, perhaps 
you thought something that was not so — but the 
minister did n’t know him and he said such a lot of 
silly things — I could n't listen — I could n’t bear it 
— and so — ” 

“Don’t explain,” John said quickly. “You are 
quite right. It was pretty bad — I felt it.” 

But started, she could not stop. “You see, he said 
things that were not true. And to speak silly lies, 
to be polite at a funeral — ” She choked, pounding 
the sofa with her thin fists. “ I hated it — I hated it. 
When I had my fingers in my ears I could n’t hear.” 

“Quite so; I understand.” 

She drew a deep breath. “No one else could,” she 
said with conviction. 

John Erskine smiled. “ Perhaps no one else there.” 
He was glad, since he had determined to take this 
child into his house, that she was not ordinary, not 
quite of common clay. John Erskine had a quiet, 
ingrained pride in his name, his position, in all that 
was his ; since Jean must be his, it was well if he could 
discern in her future cause for pride. 

“Is that all?” he asked, with a new interest. 

55 


SHIFTING SANDS 


She nodded, then took a step forward. “I don’t 
know how to thank you,” she said simply. 

His trouble seemed to return at her words. 

4 ‘Thank me! There can be no thanks from you to 
me ! Never mention it again, if you wish to please me. 
Your parents were — my friends.” There was a mo- 
ment’s pause. “Are you quite comfortable in your 
new rooms? Cousin Roxina says you like the four- 
poster bed. Are you sure? ” His tone was delightfully 
kind. “ Because little girls sometimes have fancies — 
one of my sisters now — her name is Marian — ” 

“Mrs. Winthrop Gray?” 

“The same — well, when she was little she hated 
four-posters. She mistrusted that ruffle round the 
bottom and she did n’t like the curtains at the head. 
So my mother gave her a little bedstead — it is up 
in the attic still — you may have it if you like.” 

“Oh, but I love the four-poster.” The child was 
vivid. “ Indeed, I do. I imagine it ’s a ship sailing me 
away, all the sails set and bellowing — ” 

“Billowing?” 

She laughed. “Billowing in the wind. It’s splen- 
did. Certainly, I like it.” 

“Good,” he agreed. “ I have always felt rather that 
way myself about them. But you’ll find there’s a 
lot to feel about in this old house.” 

“I know.” Shenodded. “Oh, I’ve always known.” 
She stopped short. She would not tell him that yet. 
The thought came with a hurting sense of disloyalty. 
That house across the street, where they had lived, 
56 


SHIFTING SANDS 


— she had left it. Beena had not left it. Beena was 
there now — alone. To-morrow she had heard them 
say that Beena would have much to do — 

John Erskine saw the renewed trouble which 
eclipsed the momentary glow in her face. 

“Yes?” he said. 

“I like it here,” she faltered, “but Beena is over 
there — alone — and I must go and help.” 

“There is no need of that. It will be very hard for 
you. You don’t know how hard — I do.” 

“But if Beena can, I can.” She looked up at him 
with pleading eyes. “You won’t forbid it, will you? 
I can do anything that I must do, and I truly must 
do that. I ’d feel like a coward if I did n’t. May I? ” 

“If you think it will make you happier after- 
wards.” 

She nodded. “I hate being happy by not going. 
I ’d rather go — if it hurt more’n it will, I’d go.” 

He held out his hand with frank approval. 

“You are right,” he said. “You must go.”. 


CHAPTER VII 


So Jean shared with Beena the pang and the shudder, 
helping as well as she could, leaving all practical 
decisions to the woman. Hardly less silent than 
Beena herself, she followed the old servant in her 
methodical work of sorting and packing Mary 
Dimmock’s effects. There was a grimness in the 
Scotchwoman’s grief, an austerity in her bereave- 
ment, that appealed to some chord of latent stoicism 
in the child. 

She knew that Beena had worshipped her mother, 
and she saw that Beena neither wept nor lamented, 
though her grizzled hair had whitened and her face 
had thinned till high cheek-bones and jaws showed 
through the weather-beaten skin. She saw Beena 
go doggedly about her sad business and she followed 
as doggedly. No weakness of sentiment was al- 
lowed, but the child felt the deep and silent agony of 
the old woman as she drew from wardrobe and cup- 
board and lavendered drawer the garments that had 
been hung and folded so carefully by Mary’s orderly 
hands. Simple things at the best, for the minister’s 
wife was not rich, yet holding in every line and fold, 
in their feel and breath, the spirit of her who had 
fashioned and worn them. 

Who has not known that silent, wordless appeal 
58 


SHIFTING SANDS 


of things? — things which in all their inanimation 
yet live and touch and wound and torture and — alas ! 
— upbraid. 

In the old attic under the eaves — in the old attic 
with its sweet and musty smell — stood trunks which 
had come from Mary’s New England home; big, 
square packing-cases, cedar-lined, containing a 
strange collection of garments whose value was less 
intrinsic than reminiscent, though among the faded 
finery were folded long capes of mink, ermines yel- 
lowed by time, sunshades with finely carved ivory 
sticks, shawls of China cr£pe heavy with embroidery, 
and quaint boxes full of laces. Small hair trunks 
studded with brass nails were there, too, filled with 
papers, letters, old daybooks where entries told of a 
wider life, Bibles whose stained paper carried a fam- 
ily record of generations concisely contained under 
births and deaths; hat-boxes gay with striped and 
flowered paper, holding still the calash of the eight- 
eenth century, and the caps of the early nineteenth ; 
great pigskin valises which, when opened, showed 
brave linings of scarlet morocco, gold-tooled — cases 
of books, unopened for a decade. 

“All this,” Beena said, looking round upon it 
coldly, masking her misery, “is of no value to any 
but the mistress. The doctor won’t wish them to be 
cluttering up his attic. They had best be burned — 
or part — and the rest put into the sale. She brought 
every old thing from the attic at home. They be of 
no value to any but she.” 


59 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“Oh, Beena, but I like them so,” Jean objected 
for the first time in a low voice. 

“ It ’s trumpery — 'I told the mistress ’t was trump- 
ery clutterin’ up the attic. What with the old boxes, 
and the old baskets and all — ” 

Jean had fallen on her knees before a small hair 
trunk which opened its rounded top to her pressure. 
Her fingers, wandering among the contents, lifting 
and putting down papers, fell upon a small oblong 
box of bright green embossed paper, tied around by 
a faded ribbon. Sinking down on the floor, she untied 
it, and opened the box. Inside was what? A tiny 
bunch of immortelles tied with a bit of faded pink 
silk, a small square yellowed folded paper holding 
a ring of baby’s hair and an old mourning ring. Some 
one had put them there, tied them up softly, relics 
so precious — of what? She replaced the box 
quickly and rose — 

/‘I shall keep them all, Beena,” she said quietly, 
— “all. These things and the clock and — I shall 
go now to the doctor and ask him.” 

She walked to the attic stairs and went down. 
Beena followed her lumberingly. 

Jean, intent on her request, passed the door of 
her father’s room without a tremor, found the broad 
hall , passed out of the front door, crossed the road , and 
made straight for the doctor’s house and the study. 
There she opened the door and looked in. He was 
there. She closed the door quietly and waited. John 
Erskine looked up from his desk. 

60 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“Well.” 

She did not notice or at least answer his smile. 
She was too grave. 

“What can I have from my house?” The ques- 
tion was abrupt. “Beena says that the things in 
the attic are trumpery. I like trumpery. I want 
them all.” 

“What is it you want, — what?” 

She shook her head, thinking of the little green 
box. “I want it all — all in the attic; and if you 
please, I want more, I want the clock and I want — ” 
She stopped — all that her mother had loved she 
wanted. But that was the house itself — yes, and 
the barberry bush under the dining-room window 
and the birds that nested there. Where should she 
stop? How leave it all? How could it support its 
abandonment? Things that must not speak can 
feel. Her two thin little hands worked together. If 
she could only explain her dilemma. She must have 
the little green box, and then how would the other 
papers feel, and if she took the whole trunk, the 
other trunks would so hate being left. To be sure, 
the clock was the soul of downstairs, to be chosen 
before the tables or cupboard — but there were the 
chairs — the lady’s chair and the father’s chair. She 
grew white. 

“Oh, please help me,” she faltered. “ It all wants 
to come. I can’t take it all. And it hurts so — ” 

“But you can take it all.” His tone was firm and 
arresting. “Jeanie, no one can ever take any part 

61 



SHIFTING SANDS 


of it from you. Don’t you see? It’s all yours as it 
used to be — with them there. If you brought every 
stick of the house away, you would still leave it — * 
don’t you see?” 

Her eyes widened, answering his thought. 

“ We lose nothing that we wish to keep.” He rose. 
“Shall I walk back with you, and then we shall see 
what you shall bring, as a key, let us say, to all the 
rest.” 

She nodded. Unless carried away by her interest, 
she was chary of speech. 

“ It’s the clock I want most,” she said slowly with 
diffidence, as they reached the house. “ It cares the 
most, I think, and the chairs — their chairs — you 
know. But then if I look, all the rest begs and 
wants to come, too,” — her voice broke. “ It does, 
truly.” 

Together they went up the steps and entered the 
door. 

1 1 There ’s nothing in the parlour, ’ ’ she said quickly. 
“But in the sitting-room there’s lots.” 

“Let us see,” he said gravely. 

He forced himself to enter. Robert and Mary 
Dimmock surely would be seated in the light of the 
student lamp before the fire. A shudder passed 
over him — used as he was to death — as the face 
of the dead minister rose before him. 

But the room was empty. In the deepening twi- 
light the high white mantel with its narrow shelf 
showed lightest, and the big, white panelled cup- 
62 


SHIFTING SANDS ; 

board doors. There was no fire. The room struck 
cold, unfriendly. Jean felt it. 

“Oh ! ” she exclaimed, “ they do not want to come.” 

“No,” he echoed gravely, “they do not want to 
come.” 

As they crossed the room they were reflected in 
the tall old gilt-framed mirror between the win- 
dows. They passed close to the end of the horse- 
hair and rosewood couch, where Mary’s soft, bright- 
coloured rug lay folded. Above on the wall, dimly 
seen, hung a coloured engraving, “The Entry of 
Washington into New York in 1778.” Though Jean 
was never tired of gazing at it, on the great general 
in blue on his prancing white horse, on the red In- 
dians in the crowd on the pavement, on the ladies 
in powdered hair and silks and laces on the balconies, 
she did not give it a glance now, but hurriedly led 
the way into the dining-room. The doctor shut the 
door behind them. The dining-room was even darker 
than the room left behind, but warmer; embers were 
red on the hearth, the tall clock ticked slowly, 
ponderously, friendlily. 

Jean drew a long breath. 

“Only the clock and the things in the attic, 
please,” she said. 

“You are right, I think,” he answered, still grave. 
“Now, will you say good-night to Beena and come 
back with me? it is time for your supper.” 

They were in the hall where it was quite dark. He 
could not see her face, but he felt her hesitation. 

63 


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“May I — could you wait while I just run up to 
the attic for a minute — only a minute? ” Without 
waiting for an answer, she disappeared — and he 
was left alone. 

The door behind him opened. Beena stood on the 
threshold. 

“ I thought I heard some one,” she said, regarding 
him steadily. 

“But I thought you were in the attic,” he an- 
swered. “Miss Jean has just run up there to say 
good-night to you.” 

“Not to me,” she said grimly. 

Flying feet were coming down the stairs; a little 
rush, and Jean appeared with one of her sudden 
transitions, radiant. She flung her arms round 
Beena’s neck. “Good-night,” she said breathlessly, 
“good-night.” In another moment she was out of 
the front door into the still, crisp April air. 

“I told them,” she said. Her tone was exultant. 
Through the stuff of her skirt she could feel the 
little green box in her pocket. 

That night, after Martha had tucked her in the 
four-poster bed, she rose in the dark, slipped on her 
dressing-gown, and softly lighted the candles on the 
dressing-table. From a desk in the corner she care- 
fully brought pen and ink. Then, from under the 
valance of the bed, where she had hidden it, she 
produced her treasure. 

She sat down at the dressing-table with it in her 
hands. She untied the silvet string and took off the 
64 


SHIFTING SANDS 


cover. Already the sweet, musty smell of it was 
familiar. The white lining of the cover was yel- 
lowed, splotched with pale brown mildew. She laid 
it aside, looking with soft eyes at the contents. She 
lifted the tiny bunch of immortelles. They were 
soft and fuzzy and smelled more mustily sweet. The 
thin pink ribbon that tied them was faded to white 
except in the creases, and almost fell to pieces in her 
fingers. She laid them down tenderly and took out 
the tiny folded square of paper that had lain be- 
neath them. It was unevenly browned and stained, 
but the little ring of baby’s hair within it was still 
bright. She carefully refolded it and replaced it, 
the flowers above it, with the black enamel mourn- 
ing ring which interested her least. Then she put the 
box to one side, and, bending between the candles, 
the pen in hand, she wrote slowly, in a cramped 
hand, inside the stained cover of the box, “ Found by 
me, Jean Dimmock, in the little hair trunk in the 
attic of the parsonage, with Beena on April 28, 189-, 
when I was very sad.” She blotted the writing care- 
fully, put the cover on the box, tied the faded rib- 
bon, blew out the candles, and felt her way back 
to bed. The green box lay under her pillow, in the 
clasp of her hand as she fell asleep. 


CHAPTER VIII 


It was a natural result of the strained feeling of the 
days with Beena that, when the work was ended, 
when the old servant had departed and the house 
was closed pending the arrival of the new minister, 
Jean should have been troubled by a guilty sensation 
of relief. Conscious of it she huddled miserably in 
the depths of the great bed at night, telling herself 
fiercely that she would never, never forget. Assur- 
ing herself that every day made her sorrier — and 
that as long as she ever lived she would be just as 
miserable. With her eyes shut, and her hands 
clenched, she called up the images of her mother and 
father impartially, — afraid if she recalled her 
mother oftener her father would be hurt, — and 
with them before her inner sight cried that she was 
their very own little girl who could never be happy 
any more. 

But no grief, however poignant or dutiful, could 
deaden her interest in life for long. And soon what 
she actually missed the most out of the old existence 
were not the lost presences, but, first, the curious 
musty, spicy, sweet smell of the parsonage kitchen 
which she had learnt at an early age to associate 
with things delectable and comforting, and next, 
the pleasant touch of her mother’s hands upon her 
hair when it was combed and braided for the night. 

66 


SHIFTING SANDS 


She went sniffing about after Martha for a time 
hoping to detect in her new home that happy smell 
which meant fresh crisp sugar cookies stuffed with 
golden bits of candied orange peel, yet also elusively 
suggested locust flowers and woodshed kittens. She 
finally lost the expectation in the equally insistent 
and individual smell of this old house which Martha 
pridefully explained by the oil of lavender and 
wintergreen berries which she added to her polishing 
waxes. 

As for the hair-brushing, Martha mounted heav- 
ily to Jean’s room at half-past eight every night and 
made a short business of it. 

“No, it does not hurt, Miss Jean. The stiff er the 
brush, the harder the hand, the thicker the hair,” 
she declared, counting the strokes “thirty-five — 
thirty-six.” 

“I don’t want it any thicker.” 

“ Be a proud cat and it will all come out! — forty- 
eight — forty-nine — fifty. There, you can git to 
bed alone for once. The doctor ’ll be coming in 
wet.” 

The child looked up quickly, her sulkiness van- 
ished. “Where has he gone? It ’s raining so hard. 
Does he have to go, whether it pours or not?” 

“He stay at home for rain! ’Course he has to go 
— what ’s to do if he does n’t come? Who ’s to help, 
I should like to know. Don’t be asking dumb ques- 
tions. Go to bed. If you want to please the doctor 
you’ll sleep and eat and grow fat.” 

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“Not fat!” the child protested. “I don’t like fat 
people.” 

“Not much danger,” Martha grumbled. “Look 
at you! Thin and small as a child of ten.” 

“Oh, I will eat and I will sleep,” the child cried, 
colouring sensitively. 

Under the sheet which she had drawn over her 
head till she could collect sufficient courage to face 
the shadows in the room, her cheeks burned. Did 
he think she was a hideous little thing? She would 
go to sleep at once and eat two bowls of oatmeal 
to-morrow morning for breakfast. She did hate 
oatmeal, especially when it happened to be lumpy. 
And the worst of it was you could never tell when it 
was going to be lumpy. She would take one plate on 
trial and if it was n’t lumpy, then she should have 
another. Satisfied with this heroic promise of de- 
votion, she went to sleep. 

But it is the unexpected that makes cowards of 
most of us. The first plateful of porridge safely dis- 
posed of the next morning, it was a stodgy lump in 
the second plateful helped with approval by Miss 
Roxina, that proved poor Jean’s undoing. It was a 
detestable lump, rather hard and rather raw. She 
knew that no power could make her swallow it. 
She did not dare to take it out of her mouth. She 
choked. John Erskine, reading his letters, made a 
slight, quite unconscious movement of annoyance. 
Miss Roxina looked at her severely. 

“Swallow,” she said, “swallow.” 

* 68 


SHIFTING SANDS 

Jean grew crimson, tears sprang to her eyes, and 
in an utter rout of mortification and rage, she des- 
perately started from the table and fled from the 
dining-room. 

“ Naughty child,” Miss Roxina said vexedly, “she 
choked.” 

“Evident and audible,” John answered, still read- 
ing. But when his letters were finished and laid 
aside, he looked up. “Hadn’t you better ask 
Martha to call her back?” 

Martha went in quest, but returned baffled. 

“She ’s nowhere that I can find. I ’ve called her all 
over the house. Naughty young one. Sulks in the 
morning.” 

“Let her alone. It was n’t sulks this time,” John 
said indulgently, rising. 

Jean, having rushed from the house, disposed of 
the horrid morsel behind the currant bushes in the 
garden — and then faced the appalling fact that she 
could not possibly return to the dining-room. The 
more she thought of it, the more heinous her be- 
haviour loomed in her eyes. She became a hot atom 
of self-conscious misery. She saw herself grotesque, 
ill-mannered, disgusting — and knew despair. Not 
only, she decided, could she not go back to break- 
fast, but never again could she face John Erskine. 
Oh, it was hard — it was unfair! She had only 
taken the second helping to please him ! Crouching 
behind the bushes she heard Martha’s voice calling 
her through the open windows, but she kept still. 

69 


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She would not move until John Erskine had left. 
The sun of May was shining bright, the trees of the 
garden were filled with the twittering of nesting 
birds, the sheltering currant bushes were sweet with 
aromatic bloom, but it all only added to the tragedy 
of her resolve — to go away — 

She heard the stable door roll open with a pro- 
longed squeak and thud. She heard the horses 
stamping on the floor within and the man’s voice 
speaking to them. Then she heard the bell from the 
house rung in the stable, and in another minute the 
sound of the carriage driving out and the quick trot- 
ting of the horses along the hard drive to the front 
door. 

She rose up then and cautiously looked over the 
currant bush. In a moment she saw the carriage 
drive down the avenue and out of the gates. With 
its disappearance a sense of desolation stole over her. 
She wished that she had gone back before he left. 
She suddenly realised that, though she had fled 
from him, he would have understood. But go back 
now to Miss Roxina — to Martha — never. Angry 
at herself, she hated them both. Filled with a law- 
less desire to be quit of them, she ran out of the 
garden by the back gate. Lower Street was quiet — 
only three or four cottages faced on it — but if there 
had been a hundred, in her present mood, she would 
not have cared. 

Hatless, she took her way under the fresh green of 
the maple trees, walking quickly along. The street, 
70 


SHIFTING SANDS 


after passing the last cottage, turned itself into an 
easy, ambling country road, which bent away from 
the village to the left, crossed a bridge, and went on 
down the green valley on and on into the larger 
world beyond. An ideal way for the feet of adven- 
ture, yet — they paused at the bridge. Spring lay 
over the split-rail fence; it laughed all over the low 
marsh meadows. Jean heard it, and went over the 
fence after it — and the world was suddenly golden. 

Marsh marigolds — the king’s cups — grow in 
wet places, and when you gather them, they swell up 
and the long white stems and the cobwebby rootlets 
drip muddy water all over you — and it ’s altogether 
a damp and delightful business; absorbing, too, 
when you have n’t goloshes or even boots and the 
wet comes into your shoes. But nobody cares for 
wet feet in May when the sun shines and all is new 
and glad and golden, least of all, Jean, lost to all but 
the enchantment. In all her country life she had 
never tasted the ecstasy of this freedom. Walks she 
had taken, even walks by field and wood, but a soli- 
tary ramble was an unthought-of, as it would have 
been an unpermitted, joy. 

Grief and trouble slipped away. Clutching her 
armful of muddied golden wealth, she threw herself 
with ardour into the absorbing pursuit of following 
the stream. Every in and out she must follow, she 
promised herself. But the flowers jolted when she 
jumped, grew heavy on her arm, were fading. She 
had an inspiration — 14 They shall die upon the 
7i 


SHIFTING SANDS 


stream like the flowers on the river Ganges in the 
missionary books,” she thought. She stood on a tus- 
sock and strewed them upon the waters, scattering 
them from the bank with light fingers, her eyes 
misty as she watched them float away. Then she 
saw that the sleeves of her white guimpe were wet 
and dirty. It was one of the new fine white guimpes 
that his sister had sent from Boston with the new 
straight black frocks. A great pang twinged through 
her conscience. She had spoiled the frock. Now she 
could never go back, even if she had wanted to. A 
lump rose in her throat. She stood still on the bank 
and looked about her. She had come a long way — 
she was tired and hungry. She must find the road 
again and go on. She could no longer see the bridge, 
it was hidden by the fringing willows and alders. 
But the other way, across the next meadow, was 
another bridge. She would walk on there and follow 
another road. She started, bravely determined. She 
saw nothing now of flower or tree, nor the dancing 
light on the water, nor the darting birds. She hur- 
ried on blindly, sore at the irony of life. When she 
had taken the porridge to please him ! There was no 
use in trying to be good any more. And she had so 
wanted to be good ! To get fat — not too fat — but 
round instead of skinny. She stumbled and a tear 
stole down her nose. She dashed it away with a 
savage hand. 

Perhaps when she did not come back, they would 
be sorry for — she did not exactly know for what. 

72 


SHIFTING SANDS 


Anyway , They would be sorry — and he would some- 
times speak of the child who was gone. Flashing 
across this came the wonder where she should get 
any supper. She approached the bridge and climbed 
a stone wall to the road. There she stood for a 
moment, tempted. Over the bridge the road surely 
ran back to the village. Could she return? She 
looked down at her muddy feet, at the new black 
frock, stained and rent, at the grimy wrists of the 
new guimpe. And face Cousin Roxina — who had 
said “ Swallow!” And Martha? Never. With a 
bursting heart, but high courage, she turned her 
back again on Tacitus. 


CHAPTER IX 


The feet of adventure pressed the road again. And 
again the witchery of spring beguiled. “There ’s lots 
of things besides me that likes this day,” Jean said 
to herself as she went steadily on. “ Besides birds an’ 
fishes an’ beasts an* me. Mother said she did n’t 
know if there were fairies — but I know. There are 
fairies. But it ’snot like just fairies. It’s not just 
little men all dressed in green — it ’s not that at all. 
It’s something that’s just in it all.” She nodded 
her head up and down and around — “In it all 
— in it all. Little men in green would jump an’ spoil 
things — hopping an’ skipping an’ jumping. It’s 
not like that — but it ’s there all the same — some- 
thing that I just can’t hear an’ something that I just 
can’t feel. By an’ by, when we die, p’r’aps we can — 
oh, but I don’t want to die — not forever an’ ever 
an’ ever. An’ some people I don’t b’lieve ever find 
it, even when they do die. Mother would, though, 
’cause she was always looking an’ she ’d help father.” 
She paused — she was so deep in her thoughts that 
the road ran steadily by. “An’ there’s places where 
it ’s quite near — an’ there ’s places where you think 
it’s going to be near an’ it’s far away — an’ places 
where you don’t think anything about it — an’ 
there it is! An’ that ’s the funniest. You go walking 
along, an’ then something grabs you all nice, an’ you 
74 


SHIFTING SANDS 


know it’s that, an’ you look an* you only see a 
flower — or you see the wood is n't just a wood — 
an* you wait an’ think you ’ll know all about it this 
time — an’ it’s all gone.” 

She sighed and then went on talking eagerly to 
herself. “ Marigolds don’t look like that — not a 
bit. Blue flowers do — an’ white flowers — an’ 
mostly so at night. If I could get out into a garden 
when it’s moonlight! But I can’t — ” She stopped 
with a little laugh. “You’re a silly — you have n’t 
got any sense at all. You just like to talk nonsense. 
An’ what would people say if they knew what you 
said about silly things? I am glad they don’t know 
an’ they’re never goin’ to — Ouch!” She gave a 
little cry. A pebble in her shoe. It did hurt. She 
hopped to a stone at the roadside and sat down. She 
was not as warm as she had been, and now she re- 
alised that the bright day was clouding over and a 
chill breeze was stirring. Dismayed, she gazed at 
the sky. She had never thought of rain. Must not 
the feet of adventure always press a golden road? 

It was unfair, like the lump in the porridge. Would 
spiteful, outside things like this always interfere? 
What should she do if it rained? The road stretched 
back such a very long way to the bridge. Not far 
ahead it was lost round a woody turn. If only there 
was a farmhouse round the bend, just out of sight, 
>yith a kind woman at the door, who would say, 
“Come in, little girl, an’ rest an’ have some — ” She 
suspended the imaginary invitation to consider what 
75 


SHIFTING SANDS 


she would most like to have — bread and milk? No 

— gingerbread — rather sticky and black. Her 
hungry mouth watered at the prospect. She jumped 
up and hurried on, intent upon food. In her mind 
the farm, the woman, the black molasses cake were 
certainties. She reached the turn. There was not a 
house in sight down the long road, but there, swing- 
ing towards her, was John Erskine. 

A wild impulse to fly, to hide, seized her — but 
she knew that it was too late. He had seen her. Oh, 
to be discovered thus — wet and muddy and tired 

— on this lonely road. It was bitter. She called for 
aid from Heaven, but the hoped-for miracle was 
unworked and he was close. She stood in the middle 
of the road, wet and bedraggled but defiant, bracing 
herself to meet reproof, or, worse, amusement, in 
his face. 

But she saw neither. Relief at the sight of her 
was uppermost in John Erskine’s mind. He had 
hardly acknowledged to himself the desperate fears 
that had haunted his search for her. But here she 
was — safe. He felt as if an impending curse had 
been averted. Relief sent a lightness to his voice 
and smoothed the sternness from his face. Some in- 
tuition told him how he should deal with her. 

“It’s going to rain,” he said in an odd voice, but 
quite as if he were talking to some grown-up casually 
met. “ Have you had a good time? We can go back 
together.” 

“I’m not going back.” She tried to fling the 
76 


SHIFTING SANDS 


words firmly, but her voice wavered at some sus- 
pected suffering in his face. 

He smiled. “I know,” he said. “A road” — he 
motioned with his hand — “does lead a man on. It is 
often hard for me to turn back. But after having the 
fun of pretending for a bit, we all have to in the end.” 

“Do you?” She eyed him, frowning with interest. 

“Certain.” 

“But I won’t.” Her lip was trembling. 

“Of course, not until you feel that you must. I 
don’t want you to. But I must go. It’s four o’cloqk 
and I have still some work to do. By the way” — * 
he was fumbling in his pocket — “you wouldn’t 
like a sandwich?” He produced a small square 
packet. “Take them with you.” He was looking 
down on her gravely, his blue eyes reading her. 

She shook her head. 

“No? Well,” he put them back in his coat, “I’ll 
tell them at the house that I’ve seen you. They 
were rather worried about you at lunch. Cousin 
Roxina cried, and Martha was cross. I told them 
that it was the spring, that you ’d gone for a fling, 
and that you ’d turn up all right. Don’t be too late, 
that’s all.” He nodded and walked on. 

Jean took two steps in the other direction, then 
suddenly all the hardness in her melted, for Miss 
Roxina had cried, silly though she was. It appealed 
to the child’s generosity. She stopped, paused for a 
second, then turned and flew down the road after 
the fast retreating figure. 

77 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“Dr. Erskine — Dr. Erskine,” she panted. 

He swung round. 

“Hullo!” he said, “you're coming? You're 
right, I think.” 

She stopped short before him. “It’s for them,” 
she explained. “If she cried.” 

“Quite so,” he smiled. “Give me your hand. We 
shall get along faster.” 

He was very thankful to have her thin little paw 
in his. When he had set forth to search for her some 
subconscious, illogical return to inherited teachings 
had whispered that if anything had happened to her, 
it was a punishment, a visitation, the finger of God. 

But nothing had happened, and, equally illogi- 
cally, he now felt disposed to consider her return in 
safety as a proof of especial divine benediction. De- 
tecting this feeling in himself, his mind expressed 
incredulous surprise at such weakness, but the feel- 
ing shamefacedly remained. Since he had taken her 
as a duty, surely such powers as there were would 
give him the chance of fulfilling that duty well? 

He looked down at her — with a shock of sur- 
prise he noted how slim and well-made she was. She 
walked, keeping good pace with him, her head up, 
her eyes on the road ahead. What a shy, charming 
little face — sensitive, wholly interesting. What was 
she thinking of? 

“Tell me about it,” he said suddenly. 

She started, looking up. 

“What?” 


78 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“Was it really the sun, spring in the air, the road 
— or was it something else?” His smile changed 
his whole face. She hesitated, and before she could 
answer he went on quickly, “No, don’t tell me, 
Jean — I have no right to ask you. I believe in free- 
dom — in yours as well as in mine.” 

“ Do you?” Her tone was uncertain. The change 
in his voice from gaiety to sudden gravity puzzled 
her. 

“ No one,” he went on, “not any one of us has the 
right to call another to account. We must all act 
at times as we think right — in defiance of every- 
thing — ” he paused. 

“Must we?” 

“Yes,” he recalled himself and looked at her; 
“don’t you agree?” 

She shook her head wisely. “ No, I don’t think so. 
It is what I did to-day. But I only liked it for a 
little while in the meadow, and then I got wet” — • 
her voice quivered — “and awfully muddy — and 
I ’m afraid my new dress is spoiled.” She ended very 
low. 

“Oh, we have to pay. The question is, was the 
time in the meadow worth it?” 

She thought a minute. “Yes,” she said uncer- 
tainly. “Yes, I think it was — but I won’t do it 
again.” 

He threw back his head with a boyish laugh. 

“Splendid,” he said, — “magnificent. We’ll say 
no more about it. Bu£ suppose we sit on this stone 
79 


SHIFTING SANDS 


for a moment and share the sandwiches and wait for 
the carriage. I told them to send it to meet me.” 

Jean looked at him keenly, but his face betrayed 
nothing, so she gave her attention to the food. 

“Good?” he asked, watching her. “You were 
hungry?” 

She nodded, brushed away the last crumb, and 
raised a stained but radiant face. 

“It’s fun,” she said decidedly. “And it can rain 
all it likes now that the carriage is coming. And” 
— she leaned towards him, yet speaking with a 
certain reserve — “I don't mind telling you now. 
It was n’t the spring — or anything — well — it 
was that lump in the oatmeal!” Her face grew 
fierce. “It wasn’t fair. I wanted to be good and 
get fat and eat two plates — for you — and the 
lump came when I did n’t expect it, and Miss 
Roxina said, ‘swallow,’ and I was mad that I could 
n’t and I nearly choked, and I was ashamed — and 
then I could n’t bear it and I ran away.” Her eyes 
were raised to him, appealing, defiant. 

“Poor child,” he said gravely, “poor child. It’s 
what we all do. But, at least,” he ended, rising, 
“ you have had the courage to confess. Come. The 
carriage is late. We had better walk on.” 


CHAPTER X 


Owen Owens, the preacher, lived over the bridge 
in the last house, a small brown wren of a house, set 
in Maytime in a nest of blossoms. For Owens was a 
gardener as well as preacher and watchmaker and 
scientist and botanist and poet-lover and child- 
lover and cook and scullion, and a great many other 
apparently incompatible things. 

He could preach a well-reasoned, dogmatic ser- 
mon which would satisfy his orthodox hearers on 
every head, yet go home to pop his own dinner in 
the oven. 

With his knotty fingers he could adjust and ma- 
nipulate delicate wheels and springs and bits of in- 
tricate mechanism, holding them at the end of his 
nose, under his short-sighted eyes, and the same 
fingers could coax any seedling into growth, could 
charm any green thing to flourishing. 

He could sweep and clean and scour his pots and 
pans till they shone second to none in Tacitus, and 
as readily mount to the roof there to point the great 
revolving telescope, which he had himself installed, 
to an accompanying murmur of verses from his 
favourite poet. 

And then, leaving science and literature aloft, 
he could descend, to play with some child in his 
workshop or garden. 

81 


SHIFTING SANDS 


The chance visitor to Tacitus found the preacher 
surprising, interesting, remarkable; but the village 
had accepted him and his ways half a century be- 
fore, and hardly gave him a thought except when 
they wished to avail themselves of his skill or his 
wisdom. 

Now, while the May wind sifted petals past his 
open window, disturbing him with its call to the 
garden, the preacher sat humped over his work- 
table with a microscope in his eye fixed upon the 
wheels and cogs, the delicately chased vitals of an 
old French timepiece. 

“A fine bit o’ work — a hundred years old — a 
hundred year — this bit o’ mechanism and good to 
go yet apiece — a hundred year — and poor Dim- 
mock thirty-five — to whom the grave is now a bed 
— ’thout day or night, nor warmth, nor the spring 
light.” He nodded his big head. “What a lesson, 
my brethren — 1 in the midst of life, we are in death ’ 
and — ” His soliloquy was interrupted by a knock, 
the opening of the door, and the appearance of 
young Rufus Haines. 

“Hullo!” said the young man. He looked as 
usual neat and gay, self-satisfied and smiling. 

The preacher raised a hand without turning his 
head, his lips pursed, waited for several moments, 
then carefully taking out his microscope laid it down. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, looking up. 
“I did n’t hear your knock. I was busy,” he mo- 
tioned to the watch — 

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“but now I see with eye serene, 

The very pulse of the machine. 

— What can I do for you?” 

“Oh, thanks,” Haines explained, feeling some- 
what cheap. “It was only that you’re a sort of a 
bookworm, so I thought you could tell me. What 
does ‘Sesame’ mean?” 

Owen Owens shook his head. “That’s not in 
Wordsworth nor any of the school — ” 

“It’s not poetry,” Rufus explained. “ It’s a book 
I ’ve been given to read, called — ” he inspected the 
back — ‘Sesame and Lilies.’ I can’t make anything 
of it.” 

Owen Owens, searching now up and down the 
table amid a litter of lenses, dislocated clock-works, 
dried seeds, and tools for something vital to the 
moment, shook his head. “Don’t know. Can’t she 
tell you what it means?” 

“Who?” 

The old man peered at the fairy spiral in his 
hand. 

“Why, you know — 

The creature not too bright and good 

For human nature’s daily food.” 

“Oh, stow it, Mr. Owens — ” 

But the old man continued to quote slowly: — 

“ For transient sorrow, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses — ” 

The door slammed after the young fellow and cut 
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short the couplet, but the preacher finished to him- 
self “tears and smiles,” nodded upon the words 
with a sigh which ended in a chuckle. “Walked in 
without knocking,” he said. 

The rosy petals continued to float down upon the 
May breeze and to whiten the path and the strip of 
green before the little brown house, but the preacher 
did not leave his work till one, borne by a vagrant 
breath, was wafted in through the window and set- 
tled upon his table. There it lay like a tiny fairy 
shallop, delicately balanced upon the shining mirror 
of the worn table-top. The old man gazed upon it, 
charmed. Then he touched it with a blackened fin- 
ger, and finally rose, took off his apron, and, lifting 
the petal to the palm of his hand, carried it to the 
window and set it adrift again to finish its gentle 
journeying. 

“You’re at home.” It was John Erskine’s voice. 
The words were spoken in a tone of indecision and 
surprise as if he were saying to himself, “Well, you 
see, he ’s there, after all — now, what are you going 
to do?” He stood outside the brown gate for an in- 
stant and then continued, — 

“May I come in?” 

“ Cer-r-tainly, John.” The old man spoke with a 
pleased yet sturdy alacrity, as if in his gladness at 
seeing the man he disclaimed any pride in his visi- 
tor’s position. He hurried to open the front door, in 
the little entry. He was a trifle flurried. It was long 
since John Erskine had found time to call on him; 
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in the past few years he had found his relations 
with the doctor’s household reduced to a kindly 
exchange of plants and advice with Martha and 
MissRoxina. Yet he had borne no grudge, felt no re- 
sentment. John Erskine was young, was absorbed 
in the cares of a large and growing practice, and had 
friends for his leisure in the Dimmock household. 

To-day the preacher thought humbly that possi- 
bly his turn had come. He paused. 

“ Shall we go into the garden — John?” 

John Erskine looked as if he did not hear. “ Ah — 
as you like.” Then, as the old man turned to the 
door, he added — “If you don’t mind, — no — ” 

The preacher’s short-sighted eyes scanned the 
younger man’s face. “You’re tired, John. We’ll 
just come up to the roof. But there ’s a tulip — ah ” 
— he nodded — “if Peter Bell had seen that tulip 
it would have meant something more to him than a 
simple tulip! It’s a wonder.” The thick burr was 
emphasised now as it always was in speech with 
those he loved. 

John Erskine, following up the stairs to the home- 
made observatory, recognised the change, remem- 
bered it of old, was soothed and wounded. He fol- 
lowed the quaint figure into the bare room where he 
had come daily through many holidays to prepare 
the necessary work for further examinations. The 
difference between those days and the present 
smote with such pain that he stood still, his face 
wrung. The preacher fussed at the window, talking. 
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“ When a man is tired, his eyes want peace — 
large peace — gr-r-eat spaces. Her-re you have the 
sky and the tree- tops.” 

There was no answer. The younger man was 
battling with a great and mounting surge of bitter- 
ness, of despair which whispered, “ Chuck it all and 
go away.” 

The preacher turned. John Erskine stood gazing 
at him in a kind of tense, dumb misery, his forehead 
contracted, his mouth tight shut as if to hold his 
self-control, yet his head steadily high. Owen 
Owens’s sympathy, pierced by a gleam of kindly 
humour, recognised the boy he had known ; the boy 
whose high spirits and quick impulses had led him 
headlong into places where his better judgement 
stood aghast, retreat forbidden by a pride which 
could not bend to defeat in any circumstance. 
“ Thrash it out of him,” the old doctor had growled. 
But in his heart the father had proudly known the 
assurance that such pride as the culprit John’s could 
hot be reached by any lash ; it was impregnable, 
deep-rooted in the very fibre of the boy’s nature. 

Now, as in those earlier days, the preacher real- 
ised that whatever the trouble — plainly marked in 
his face — which had brought John Erskine to him 
to-day, his pride would bar its utterance; that, even 
though the man had come with the intention of 
seeking some counsel or comfort, he would leave 
again uncounselled and uncomforted. 

“Sit down, John,” he said gravely. 

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John Erskine, with a slight straightening of his 
shoulders, took his old seat beside the bare, ink- 
marked table. “I am not quite myself,” he ex- 
plained coldly. “Tired — need a change — Ought 
to get away — * and can’t.” He faced the older man 
with an odd challenge in his face. 

The preacher nodded. Yes. So the boy had 
feuded all approach to confidence. Yet in the man’s 
half-mocking regard he read an underlying, deadly 
weariness that troubled him. He had loved the boy, 
been proud of his success, prouder still of the sense 
of duty which had brought him back to Tacitus. 
But now a doubt crossed his mind. Did John regret 
his choice? Did he feel the restrictions of this village 
life, the limitations he had set to his own ambitions? 
Would it have been better for him to have stayed 
away there in foreign lands, where they discover 
great secrets in state laboratories which are thence 
given to the whole world? Would that possibly have 
been better for him than this daily spending of him- 
self in a small round for others? Yet, surely, his work 
in the last six years — 

John’s voice broke in upon his troubled thoughts. 

“ I came in partly to ask you, sir, if you remember 
Rev. Charles Savage who visited us once when I 
was a boy. They have left the choice of DimmockV 
successor practically to me. That is, we ’re a com* 
mittee of three — Sam Beebe, young Haines, and 
myself — but unfortunately that means me.” John 
Erskine paused. His voice was weary again. “It 
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is n’t a job that I like — that goes without saying. 
But I ’ve got to do it. My sister — Marian — has 
written to say that Mr. Savage would like the place, 
that you would remember him. Do you?” 

The old man nodded gravely. “I remember. A 
gr-r-eat scholar — speaking Gr-r-eek as I speak Eng- 
lish. A kind man, a gentleman. Your father invited 
me to sup with him. But he ’s an old man now, J ohn. ’ ’ 

“Over fifty — with one daughter. And you liked 
him, sir. So that settles it. Though he cannot come 
before the fall.” 

“Settle it!” the preacher cried in a scandalised 
voice. “Settle it! Surely ye don’t settle a meenister 
on a people like that, John. Look here. You ’ve had 
a great strain, but don’t let it break your responsi- 
bility.” 

“Strain!” John Erskine repeated sharply. 

“The taking of your two friends — ’tis not every 
man could have stood the shock as well as you have, 
John. So the whole village has said — and you 
must n’t break down now. Remember how ye came 
back here because your duty lay first here in Tacitus 
where your father lived and' where the people need 
ye — that ’s why ye came back. And what have ye 
done since ye came? ” He leaned forward, his cream- 
cheese face earnest, his lank black hair falling over 
his high brow, his thick voice vehement. “Ye’ve 
done all to make your friends proud of ye — proud. 
Six years since ye came back and each year ye’ve 
risen in the respect and affection of this village and 
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of the township. I knew your father, John. If the 
old doctor were alive, he would say what I say to you 
now, that you ’ve done well. You ’ve been a good and 
faithful servant — and you’ve got to keep it up.” 

John Erskine did not move. He had longed to- 
day to hear the plea of his own works urged to him- 
self by the lips of another. But now that it was done 
and by this old and loyal friend, he felt no inrush of 
encouragement — No one could help him — no one. 
For no one knew what he had lost. 

“You’re tired out,” the preacher went on. “It’s 
been a cruel thing. Take a holiday. Go along and 
see Miss Marian and the new meenister himself in 
Boston.” 

John Erskine rose, shaking his head. 

1 1 Can’t be done. Thank you for your good opinion 
— which I don’t deserve. I wish I could feel that it 
does — count — ” 

“Count? No one — could do — what you have 
done here,” the other declared, spacing his words 
with emphasis. “Look at the people roundabout. 
What would a stranger make of them? But all, 
Welsh and Methody and Unitarian and the ’Pisco- 
palian over to the Falls — they all look to you — 
as they looked to your father — I can’t say more’n 
that, ’n’ you’ve topped all the rest by this bit of 
kindness to the child.” 

John Erskine rose brusquely. “I must be going. 
But first show me that tulip that would move even 
Peter Bell to an inkling of higher things.” 


CHAPTER XI 


As long as the parsonage remained untenanted, 
Jean played a play. It was simple; that Robert and 
Mary Dimmock still lived with their little girl Jean 
across the road. Of course this also involved the 
play that she, herself, was not Jean Dimmock, but 
some one else. So she naturally became the little 
girl who had always belonged in the old Erskine 
house, and who took a great interest in the child 
who lived in the parsonage. 

All through the summer she played this, devising 
each day some new excuse why she could not go to 
see Jean Dimmock nor Jean Dimmock come to see 
her. “If Jean Dimmock knew that I was so lone- 
some,” she would say, “she’d ask her mother to let 
her come. Jean Dimmock isn’t lonesome; she’s 
got her father and mother. She ’s got a little garden, 
too, back of the house, and she ’s out there now, and 
her mother is there sitting by her in a little chair, 
sewing a long seam with her white hands and talk- 
ing softly with her nice voice. Jean Dimmock is 
just as happy! Her mother tells her lovely things 
Mr. Dimmock ’s up in his study and that funny 
old Beena is making cookies in the kitchen. Jean 
can smell ’em in the garden, and she says, ‘Mother! 
Cookies!’ And her mother laughs and says, ‘Run, 
then!’ Oh, I wish I had some!” 

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With September came a check to this play. One 
day Miss Roxina and Jean went for a walk to the 
Falls. It was a great expedition, for the Falls were 
at least a mile and a half out of the village. It neces- 
sitated some preparation. They carried little cakes 
in a little basket, a sunshade, an Eastern shawl of 
many-hued stripes for Miss Roxina to sit upon, 
and a small fat volume of Scott’s poems, for Miss 
Roxina was reading aloud “Marmion” for the im- 
provement of Jean’s mind and thought this an op- 
portunity not to be missed. It was a pleasant party 
on the whole, though Miss Roxina did walk very 
slowly, and was always afraid that you’d get wet 
or hurt or hot or cold. Still, Jean found delight in 
the day, in the roadside, the wood, and most of all 
in the stream, where the water slipped in smooth 
sheets over grey and yellow limestone. 

That was why this especial place was so amusing. 
It was no ordinary pebbly, rocky, sandy stream. It 
had a visible history. It had plainly cut its way 
through the soft limestone of the little gorge, now 
hung with blue harebells, ferns, and grasses, and 
went slipping down the hill over steps of limestone 
which would, in their turn, be worn away. It was 
very fascinating, and while Miss Roxina read Mar- 
mion ’s last charge in a quaveringly moved and val- 
iant voice, Jean watched the water and thought 
about it. 

Then, on their way home, she saw that the win- 
dows of the parsonage were open! Although she 
9i 


SHIFTING SANDS 


pretended not to see, hurrying Miss Roxina along, 
though she told herself that Mr. and Mrs. Dimmock 
and Jean had gone away for the day, and that Beena 
was house-cleaning, she knew what it meant, and 
did not need to be told that the new minister was 
coming. He did not, however, actually arrive until 
nearly Christmas — until Tacitus was under deep 
snow. 

“It does seem a pity Miss Savage should have 
come in such a cold spell,” Miss Roxina said, as, 
seated at the old secretary in the upstairs sitting- 
room, she carefully set a copy for Jean’s writing- 
lesson. 

Jean did not answer. She stood at the window, 
gazing out through the frosted tracery of the pane. 
From henceforth she was to be Jean Dimmock and 
no one else, she told herself. As for these new people 
who had come shouldering out her own, they were 
nothing to her. Yet, as she said it, with her chin in 
the air, she knew, by the hurt at the bottom of her 
heart, that she was sickly jealous of them — not 
for herself, but for those others — she hated them. 

'‘Any one who ain’t used to the country’ll feel 
the cold in Tacitus,” Miss Roxina went on. 

Still the child was silent. 

“Cousin John has not said much, but ’pears to 
me, he must be glad to have them here. Miss Savage 
is an old friend of his sister Marian — Mrs. Win- 
throp — ” 

“Yes — I know,” Jean burst out recklessly, “and 
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she speaks Greek and Hebrew and plays the piano 
and works for the poor and I think she ’s a horrid 
old thing!” 

“Jean Dimmock!” Miss Roxina looked properly 
shocked. “Come here — what would Cousin John 
say if he knew!” 

Jean’s face, flushed and mutinous, changed 
swiftly. “You won’t tell him,” she asked, her back 
to the window, “Cousin Roxina.” 

“Not if you’re sorry.” 

The child hesitated. “I’m sorry.” 

“Well, then, sit down.” 

Jean took her place at the table. “That’s the 
way they make you lie,” she thought. “I am not 
sorry a bit, but she made me say that lam. I’d say 
I was sorry again, too, rather than have him know.” 
As she bent over the copy reading, “Consistency, 
thou art a jewel,” John Erskine was mounting the 
steps of the parsonage. 

He was ushered into the room he had once known 
so well. It was a relief to find it unrecognisable. Its 
furnishing was green and white, and in its sanity 
seemed a fit setting for the woman who rose to greet 
him. Constance Savage gave an instant impression 
of balance and repose. Heart-whole at twenty-nine, 
she presented that combination of idealism with 
eminently practical qualities which is not unusual 
in New England. In big things compromises were not 
for her. It would always be the best or none. Mean- 
while she did all the small things carefully and well. 

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With the recognition of a common world, common 
traditions, and a common ground of meeting, they 
shook hands. 

“How very nice of you, Dr. Erskine. Marian 
said that you would be waiting to welcome us. My 
father will be down at once. He has taken the little 
room upstairs as his study. Don’t you think we look 
settled? I always feel installed when I have my 
piano, my books, and my friends.” She glanced at 
the many photographs. 

He smiled. “You put the friends last.” 

“No, only the piano first — ” 

They spoke of Boston, of Marian Gray, of com- 
mon acquaintances. John noted the light-brown 
hair wound in smooth waves round her head, her 
clear brown eyes, her strong white hands which lay 
folded so quietly in her lap. And yet, as she leaned 
forward talking to him from the corner where Mary 
had used to sit, he was seized by an impression of 
unreality, wondering for a second why she was 
there. Gazing at her, he saw, not hers but another 
face. 

The instant’s aberration, the disconnection, so 
to speak, of their two minds, was felt by her. She 
looked up. Before she could realise the expression 
on his face the opening door broke the spell. Mr. 
Savage entered. A tall, thin man, with sparse grey 
hair, a high forehead, peaked light eyebrows, pale- 
blue eyes which seemed always looking expectantly 
over his thin, hooked nose, a wide, thin-lipped 
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mouth, and a thin grey chin beard. He had the 
childlike look of the student. 

He met the doctor with a kind of mild excitement. 
The three took their seats around the open wood- 
fire and the talk naturally turned upon Tacitus. 

“Do tell us a little about the people,” Constance 
begged. “ I already love the village or what I have 
seen of it.” 

John Erskine’s face brightened to an enthusiasm. 

“ I suppose it would seem a curious place to most 
people,” he said. “That is why I was so anxious to 
get you here, sir,” • — he turned to the clergyman. 
“No one but a gentleman and one with a certain 
amount of imagination could understand Tacitus. I 
am not sure that I do, although I was born here. 
They are a serious, quiet people, to whom life is a 
grave matter. They have never heard of a duty of 
happiness: would n’t understand it if they had. But 
they know right from wrong, as none of our modern 
hair- splitters ever can. And they are prepared to 
follow the right at any cost. In short, sir, as I think 
I wrote to you, they are rigid in principle, strict in 
practice, narrow in outlook, joyless, yet possessing 
a depth of serenity which, perhaps, is better than 
joy. They are inarticulate, yet ponder much. They 
are — ” 

Constance interrupted softly — “Puritans.” 

* J ohn met her glance gravely. “Yes, at the bottom 
Puritans still. That is the predominant character- 
istic of the farm and of the village. Besides that, 
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you have a small body of Welsh who settled in the 
outlying country a generation ago. They have kept 
their language,their own point of view, and customs. 
They have their own church, the small white one 
you see as you drive into the village from the station. 
Their minister, Owen Owens, is one of the charac- 
ters of the place, self-educated, simple, kind, and 
shrewd. You’ll like him. He will help you with 
your garden, Miss Savage, for though the village 
limits any intimacy between the Methodists and 
ourselves, the Welsh preacher is persona grata every- 
where. 

“Of course other and more modern types have 
crept in. There ’s Rufus Haines, the schoolmaster, 
an up-to-date, slangy young chap. The Beebes, too, 
who have the store, might stand for the spirit of 
modern commercialism, though they and their suc- 
cess are more despised than admired by all except a 
small following. They really belong with the Method- 
ists. The Methodist minister, Bowles by name, is 
a good, zealous, commonplace man, by the way. 
But, as the best, in the sense of the most prosperous 
as well as the most austere, portion of the commun- 
ity are Unitarians, the Beebes have come to us.” 

“How amusing.” Constance looked thoughtful. 
“Even here.” 

“Quite so,” John repeated: “even here. But 
you’ll soon find all our oddities for yourself. Old 
Mrs. Lovejoy, who dresses like a man and nurses all 
the stray animals — she sells honey and fowls, by 
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the way. And Spiller, who is Jack-of-all-trades when 
he isn’t the undertaker. Then there’s Skimmilk 
Smith, and my lean assistant Tanner, and many 
more.” He stopped. “I can’t expect any one,” he 
went on, “to understand them as I do, or have the 
same affection for them. I suppose, in spite of every- 
thing acquired, I am really akin to them in that 
likeness which the same soil and air bestow in the 
course of several generations.” He stopped. Then, 
looking up with a smile — “They have their faults, 
of course. But, as you see, I care a great deal for 
them. They are my people.” 

He changed the subject, but as he went out of the 
room to visit her father’s study, Constance said to 
herself, “It was because he felt like that that he 
came back to them. How stupid people are. Every 
one wondered why he did it.” 

It was not till John was going, on his return to the 
sitting-room, that he came to one of the objects of 
his visit. 

“My sister tells me that you are musical, Miss 
Savage, and added in her letter that possibly you 
might be persuaded to undertake the teaching of 
my little ward, Jean Dimmock. She has had no 
lessons yet, but I believe she has talent. I am anx- 
ious to interest her in something — ” He paused. 

“I know,” she said in a low voice, “poor child. 
Marian told me. Of course I should love to teach 
her.” 

He hesitated. “She is an odd child. Not easy to 
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know or to manage. Self-contained with strangers, 
yet very sensitive. Her ancestry may account for 
much of the curious contradiction in her. She’s 
Spanish, you know, on one side, New England for 
the rest.” 

“A combination which might result in interesting 
surprises!” Miss Savage agreed, smiling. “You 
make me want to know her. I hope that we shall be 
friends.” 

“Good,” the doctor said sincerely. He started to 
go, then turned. “There is one thing,” he began. 
Miss Savage looked up. He cleared his throat. “You 
know the tragedy?” 

She nodded, with a slight gesture of repugnance. 

He looked down. “I do not want her to know.” 
He paused; then, looking up, went on. “It’s bad 
enough for her to lose both parents, but I don’t want 
the horror of imagination added.” 

“I quite understand,” Miss Savage said gravely. 
“Good-night. Thank you for coming. We know 
that you are busy, but we shall hope to see you 
whenever you can spare the time.” 

“Thank you. Ah, here is your father with the 
book he is good enough to loan me. Good-night, 
Miss Savage. Good-night, sir, good-night.” 

“A very exceptional man, my dear,” the clergy- 
man said when John had gone. “A scholar. He took 
a great interest in my paper ‘ On the Origin and 
Character of the Greek Tragedy’ and made one very 
valuable suggestion. A clever man. It will add 
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greatly to my pleasure having him for my neigh- 
bour. A man of character, if we may judge from a 
countenance.” 

“He was always supposed to be brilliant, you 
know, father. Don’t you remember hearing of him? 
He took all kinds of honours.” 

“I do, I do. But in these days, when praise is, 
in my opinion, over-lavishly bestowed, I am pleas- 
antly surprised to meet a man with such gifts as 
Dr. Erskine. As Orestes says, ‘ Pray that fair end 
may fair beginning follow’ to this friendship.” The 
clergyman turned, and with endeavour to hide his 
haste, went towards the door, his mind already in 
the room above. 

Constance, still standing, looked after him. 

“ Are n’t you going to stay with me a little while, 
father? You ate no lunch, you were so impatient to 
return to work. I will have a cup of tea for you in a 
minute if you will stop.” 

He turned back, visibly embarrassed between the 
choice of appearing ungracious or giving up the 
hour of daylight that remained. 

His daughter had pity on the look of helpless ap- 
peal in his eyes. “No, don’t stop. I see you have 
something inportant in your mind which must be 
said at once. Go, dear. Tea shall be ready when you 
come down.” 

“Thank you, Constance, thank you. That will be 
best. The doctor’s suggestion — ” The rest of the 
sentence was lost as he left the room. 

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She smiled. With all his learning he was such a 
child. So kind and gentle; his only battles waged 
with far-distant scholars over the reading of some 
obscure Greek text. These contests alone brought 
fire to his mild eyes. 

She walked to the piano. She was glad that he 
liked John Erskine. She had expected, herself, to 
like him. ^Everything that she had heard of him had 
interested her — his quixotic return to Tacitus more 
than his foreign laurels — his taking of the tragically 
orphaned child most of all. She opened her piano 
and began to play. Her firm hands touched the keys 
quietly yet surely. She sat straight, her head up, 
her eyes raised. She played Beethoven. 

Suddenly she stopped. Now that she had seen 
him she wondered — what was the meaning of that 
strange and fleeting look that she had surprised upon 
his face? She had not been prepared, either, for the 
settled look of strain that she had found there. Per- 
haps he was overworked. She would see. Anyway, 
as her father had said, his being there would make a 
great difference to them. Yet, when she came to 
think of it, it was the other way around. It was that 
they might make a difference to him that they were 
there. 

She pushed back her sleeves and went on playing. 


CHAPTER XII 


John was the first to scent the spring. April, April 
with its memories was here again. The first soft 
breath that greeted him through his open window 
appalled him with its recall of tragedy and pain. 
Thank God it was a year behind him. Time would 
bury all griefs, all losses. Had not life resumed its 
ordinary way? Days filled with the fatiguing round 
of a wide country practice, nights devoted to work? 
Existence had become bearable again till this breeze 
had stirred something to waking. Could he never 
forget?. 

He went down to breakfast and there announced 
his discovery. 

“ Spring, Jean, — didn’t your nose tell you?” 
He helped himself to toast. Why did the child stare 
so? She had eyes like her mother. “Your days of 
tyranny are numbered, Cousin Roxina.” 

Miss Roxina, faintly pink, fluttered behind the 
coffee tray. John liked to tease. It was not wise 
before the child. He was beginning again, talking 
some nonsense. 

“ It’s time for Jean to fold up her sewing and go 
fishing. That ’s the part of her education that I un- 
dertake. You ’ve worked her hard this winter, Cousin 
Roxina, confess it.” He had begun to talk mechani- 
cally, but the child was so amused that he went on. 

IOI 


SHIFTING SANDS 

The old lady demurred. “John Erskine, how you 
do talk!” 

“Talk! IVe kept silent hitherto because I am 
afraid of you! You know I’m afraid of you, don’t 
you?” 

“John!” 

“You know, Jean and I are afraid of you. You 
know how you browbeat us, make us wipe our 
boots on the mat, and eat up our crusts, and say 
‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘ No, ma’am.’ It was only yester- 
day Jean showed me a disgraceful block of patch- 
work.” 

“Disgraceful! John!” 

“Disgracefully big, I mean.” 

“Not only patchwork,” chimed in Jean, “but 
crochet and knitting and mending and darning.” 

“Shocking! What have you to say, Cousin Rox- 
ina?” 

The little lady stiffened. “Only this. When I was 
in Boston, at your sister’s house, I saw the way your 
nieces are trained. Masters and mistresses coming 
and going, singingand playing and all the accomplish- 
ments. I am doing my best for Jean, though she 
has not been as diligent as I could wish.” 

Jean stared guiltily at her plate. 

“Nonsense, Cousin Roxina.” John’s voice was a 
trifle sharp. “The child has done very well. Any 
way, you are not to be found fault with on the first 
day of spring, are you, Jean? No lessons to-day! 
You shall learn poetry instead.” 

102 


- SHIFTING SANDS 

“Oh, which?” — she was all eagerness. “May I 
choose?” 

He laughed boyishly. “Well, which?” 

She paused, debating. “Oh, I know. ‘On the 
something by the cliff side lie strewn the white flocks ’ 
— you know. It’s just the one for spring.” 

He pushed back his chair, his face sombre. “For 
the spring in Tacitus?” His tone was both weary 
and sarcastic. 

The child, quick to catch a mood, ended quietly. 
“Something else, then. You choose, please.” 

“No, that ’s very good. But I read it to you weeks 
ago.” 

She nodded. “I know. But I liked it and the 
things you said. Sicily, the olive orchards, all grey. 
So I remembered.” 

Cousin Roxina sighed audibly. They were often 
talking about things which she did not understand, 
in a kind of shorthand speech which she was at much 
pains to follow. The sigh was partly one of disappro- 
val, too ; for poetry, other than that of sacred hymns, 
she vaguely felt to be profane. She believed it part 
of her duty to counteract John’s taste in literature. 

Now she rose primly and spoke in her precise little 
voice. “You must allow me, Cousin John, to choose 
Jean’s verses to-day. She will finish her tasks with 
me this morning, and if it is your intention to go 
fishing this afternoon, for I see your rods are in the 
hall, she shall be ready. I see no reason why she 
should not accompany you.” 

103 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“My dear good cousin, I should think not.” His 
tone was seriously decisive. “I shall do both my 
rounds before I come back, so I shall not be here for 
lunch.” He walked to the door, but turned there. 
“At four at the dispensary, Jeanie.” He would not 
by a look encourage the imp of mischief shining in 
Jean’s eyes. The door closed after him. 

Jean sighed. 

“You must overcome that habit, Jean. It is not 
polite to sigh in company.” 

“Why not, Cousin Roxina?” 

“ Because it expresses fatigue or — or — ” 

“I think it generally means that we want to be 
where we are not, or doing something that we are 
not, and it is not rude to say that to you, is it? ” Her 
face wore an expression of innocence. 

Miss Adams relented. 

“Perhaps not to me, indeed. But never in com- 
pany. Now you will go up to your bedchamber and 
make your bed and put your things away neatly. 
Then join me in the sitting-room.” 

“Thank you, Cousin Roxina. May I just peep 
out of doors first to see if the spring is here?” 

“Well, just for a minute, then.” Miss Roxina 
trotted off with her fussy little air of importance to 
interview Martha, and Jean, making the most of 
her permission, opened the front door, ran across 
the stone verandah floor, and down the steps. Clear 
of the Doric columns, under the blue sky, she 
stopped, threw up her small head, sniffed the spring- 
104 


SHIFTING SANDS 


laden air, then kicked up her long legs like a colt, 
and bolted round the house. She loved to run. 

Cousin Roxina and Martha, discussing the day’s 
fare in the kitchen, paused as they saw her flash by 
the door. 

“Miss Jean,” Martha said. “The spring it be, 
Miss^Roxina.” 

“That ’s hardly an excuse, Martha. Miss Jean is 
inclined to be rather hoydenish at times.” 

“Well, miss, speaking for myself, with no disre- 
spect, I ’d rather see her so than quiet and study in’ 
all the day. Is n’t it natural for young things?” 

“Quite true, Martha. But a little more repose.” 

The figure dashed by the door again, head up, 
running swiftly, and, catching sight of Martha who 
had peered out at her, panted back as she ran, “ Five 
times round is half a mile. Time me, Martha. Time 
me!” 

Martha, wiping her hands on the roller, glanced 
with guilty interest at the clock. Miss Roxina, with 
a faint gasp, left the kitchen, and by a rapid advance 
through the hall, cut Jean off at the front of the 
house, stopped her in the second lap, and ordered 
her summarily within. 

She stood panting and protesting. “You might 
have let me finish, Cousin Roxina.” 

“My dear, what will people think? In your teens 
— a great girl like you!” 

“Oh, bother! There is no one to think except old 
Mr. Savage. And he can’t see across here. I don’t care 

105 


SHIFTING SANDS 


what any one thinks really. It was fun, Cousin Rox ! ” 

“ Kindly do not shorten my name. Now, who is 
this?” 

It was a figure approaching down the drive. A 
boy of sixteen, in ragged clothes, with a dull, pale 
face, set in a frame of light, lank hair, crowned by a 
battered old hat. 

“Well, George Bullock, what do you want?” 
Miss Roxina’s voice was unsympathetic. The shift- 
lessness of the Bullock family on the dunes was a 
sore subject with her. 

The boy stood speechless, looking from the child 
to the little lady standing above on the steps. They 
waited. 

“Pants!” he mumbled finally, hanging his head. 

Miss Roxina’s maidenly eyes inspected his nether 
garments. “ I should think so. Jean, you will go to 
Martha and ask for that pair of the doctor’s trousers 
which she put by yesterday.” 

Jean, quite filled with pity for the boy’s poverty, 
ran into the house and came back in a moment with 
the garment. 

“They’re much too long- for him, Martha says, 
Cousin Roxina.” 

Cousin Roxina held them up and measured them 
and the boy with her eye. 

“Much. Now, George Bullock, listen to me. You 
take these home to your mother and tell her they 
are as good as new. That I say she must cut them 
off two inches at the bottom and turn them up and 
106 


SHIFTING SANDS 

sew them. They will last you a long time. You 
understand?” 

The boy nodded, took them sheepishly and 
slouched away. 

“Now go up to your room, Jean, and be careful 
how you leave your writing-table. It was most un- 
tidy yesterday.” 

Quite unchastened, Jean ran up the stairs, her 
body still tingling from the exercise. Half an hour 
later she presented herself before Miss Roxina in her 
sitting-room. The day promised to be long till four 
o’clock. She set herself with no good grace to the 
tasks appointed. The doctor had said that she need 
do no lessons, yet there seemed a great deal to get 
through. Sustained by the prospect of the after- 
noon’s pleasure, however, she finished it all, even 
the learning of the verses. Such verses ! Unearthed 
by Miss Roxina from the treasure-house of memory 
and recited with moist eyes, they met a worthy re- 
ception from Jean. She learned them with secretly 
gleeful gusto. 

At three o’clock, in the midst of her practising, 
she stopped short. It was raining. Of all unmerited 
disappointments. 

Cousin Roxina who was counting aloud — one — 
two — three — four — one — two — three — four 
— looked up from her knitting enquiringly. 

“It’s raining,” Jean explained. 

il One — two — three — four,” Cousin Roxina 
frowned, nodded, and proceeded inexorably. 

107 


SHIFTING SANDS 


But the fingers remained glued to the keys. 

“ You know Miss Savage won’t like it if you don’t 
know your lesson to-morrow!” 

“ I don’t care!” 

“Jean! And you said you liked that piece.” 

“Oh, the music — yes, I do like it,” she pouted. 
“That’s different.” 

“One — two — three — four.” The old lady 
counted steadily, and the fingers fell into time and 
the practising continued until four o’clock chimed 
from the little clock. Then, with a sudden dash, the 
child leapt from the piano and flew from the room 
and down the stairs. 

“She did n’t have time to say that I could n’t,” 
she panted as she seized her hat and coat in the hall 
and ran out of the house. 


CHAPTER XIII 


The rain was nearly over as Jean ran down the 
path to the small grey building called the “Office.” 
She burst in at the door, startling the assistant, a 
sandy young man, known to her as “Mr. Tanner,” 
who was doing up a prescription. She sniffed the 
drug-laden air with satisfaction and stood for a mo- 
ment eyeing the tiers of gold-lettered glass and china 
jars which filled the shelves. The dispensary was a 
very fascinating spot. Such nice, candy-looking 
stuff in some of the jars, and in others compounds of 
wonderful colours ; sticks in some and lumps in some 
and liquid in many; nice little measures and scales, 
too, and bowls and flasks and bottles. A truly de- 
lectable place, if only the sandy-haired one was not 
always in possession. 

“The doctor is in his office,” Mr. Tanner vouch- 
safed. 

“Oh!” Jean knocked at the door. 

“Come in.” The voice was preoccupied. 

John Erskine sat at his desk, his back to the book- 
lined room, bending over a tin box on the table be- 
fore him. He hardly noticed Jean’s approach. She 
understood and her eyes sparkled. 

“We’re going?” 

He nodded, a piece of gut between his teeth. 

She craned nearer. “What a lot of flies!” 

109 


SHIFTING SANDS 


He put away the piece of gut. “Yes, coachman 
— yellow Sally — alder — dun — cocky — bond- 
dhu” — he touched them as he named them — ■ 
“all the caboodlum. Come on.” He snapped the 
box shut. “Rain’s stopped. You are ready?” 

“When I have said my poetry. Cousin R. says I 
must before I can go. It’s such a beauty. You 
really must hear it.” 

He glanced at her quickly. He had had some ex- 
perience of Cousin Roxina’s choice in these matters. 
But his voice was grave and his face severe as he 
said : — 

“You must do as Cousin Roxina says, of course. 
But be quick. We must not lose the rise.” 

“There are six verses.” She cleared her throat 
in approved country fashion, and standing before 
him with downcast eyes began, in a voice which was 
a good imitation of Miss Adams’s: — 

“Mamma, how still the baby lies, 

I cannot hear its breath. 

I cannot see its laughing eyes — 

Pray, tell me, is it — ” 

A knock on the door luckily saved John the neces- 
sity of interruption. It was Mr. Tanner who ap- 
peared on the threshold to ask if his services might 
be dispensed with at an early hour, to enable him to 
attend choir practice. John gave him permission, 
and, ignoring the unfinished recitation, haled Jean 
forth. 

The last misty drops of the shower were falling as 
no 


SHIFTING SANDS 


they left the office together by the door which opened 
directly upon Lower Street. They turned to the 
right and walked along to the road that runs over the 
bridge; there the houses of the village ended, and 
they climbed a wall and struck across the field. As 
they neared the fringe of willows along the creek, 
the doctor stopped abruptly, with a motion to Jean 
for silence. She tiptoed to his side and looked 
where he pointed through the bushes. 

Her visitor of the morning stood on the bank 
angling with a string and a hickory pole. His old 
felt hat was on the back of his head, his long pale 
hair hung lank. 

‘‘George Bullock,” the doctor said. “Catching 
anything, George?” 

The boy started. “ Yes’m, I mean mister, I mean 
doctor.” He pointed under the willows where a nice 
mess of fish lay on the short green turf. He giggled. 
“Reckon I kin fish some.” 

“Oh!’* Jean whispered, “see. He’s got on the 
trousers that Cousin Roxina gave him this morning. 
What a shame! They are much too long and she 
told him over and over that he must not wear them 
till they were cut off.’* 

“See here, George,” the doctor said, walking up 
to him. “Let me see those trousers. They are too 
long for you, my boy. Tell your mother for me that 
she must cut them off, turn them up, and sew them. 
Do you understand ?” 

“An* so I did.” 


hi 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“Well, what did she say?” 

“Ma said put um on an’ they’ll wear off. An’ so 
they will. They be all wearin’ on the bottom now.” 

The doctor smiled, though he sighed, as he turned 
to Jean. “Wear off, Jean! They’re a shiftless lot. 
But you ’re a good fisherman, George, and when you 
take your fish home to-night, tell your mother again 
what the doctor says about those trousers. The 
doctor says it this time, mind.” 

But George wagged his head. “Ma won’t,” he 
mumbled. “She won’t.” And he continued to angle 
with his string and his hickory pole for the fish 
which he called his brothers. 

“We will walk on to the Long Pool,” John said, 
peering at the water. “Ah, the sun’s coming out. 
We shall have some good sport.” He strode along 
the bank, Jean taking a run now and then to keep 
up. 

The water, after rushing over the stones, widened 
suddenly into the Long Pool, swirling into a back- 
water close to their feet, banked by a shingle bed 
which extended the length of the stretch, shelving 
off into deep water which ran dark and oily under the 
farther bank, where, however, the sun caught the 
hard ridge of a gravel bed and turned it to a streak 
of amber. The bank, rain-rimed and glistening, 
fringed with dripping willow and alder, overhung 
the water in places, and it was just in those dark, 
deep spots that the trout were feeding. At the end 
of the pool the fish were rising. 

1 12 


SHIFTING SANDS 

“Those are the little fellows, Jean. Now for a big 
one.” 

With a deft cast, John sunk his fly under the 
bank and worked it around to the middle of the 
stream, a dimple in the water following just behind it. 

“Threw short,” John muttered. “He followed me 
around. Have another try.” 

A yard more line from the reel this time, the fly 
sank under the bank, there was a swirl in the black 
water and the line tightened as John struck his fish. 
The reel sang, the trout rushed downstream under 
their feet, then back. John took in line as the fish 
made for the backwater at the head of the pool. 

“The net, Jean. You must land him. Careful — 
careful. Steady. Well under! You’ve got him. 
Well done!” His eyes were on the child as with 
steady eye and hand she landed the fish. “She has 
nerve,” he said to himself. “Comes up to the 
scratch every time.” Aloud, “Three quarters of a 
pound, I should say.” He held the shining thing in 
his hand for her inspection before slipping it into 
his bag. “Now, it’s your turn.” 

“Oh, may I?” She was pale with interest — a 
little line of concentration between her eyebrows, 
as she took the rod, silent but intent on John’s ad- 
monitions. “ Keep the tip up. Cast as I did. That ’s 
not bad. Very good for a first try. Follow down the 
bank. The water’s faster there, so you won’t be so 
likely to ‘ put down ’ a fish. You are doing very well. 
Keep it up. Now, throw your line under the bank, 
ii3 


SHIFTING SANDS 


and when you see a dimple strike quickly. But not 
too hard, Jean, not too hard. Then give him line, 
but not slack. Feel your fish all the time.” 

He watched her anxiously. How keen she was! 
Her lips compressed, her brow puckered, her slight 
figure braced, the colour mounting to her cheeks. 
How keen and how thoroughbred. How pretty she 
was growing! 

A swirl in the water. Jean struck with might and 
main. “Oh, he’s gone!” She turned a blank face. 

“Gone with your fly. The cast did not hold. Wind 
up and try again. Bad luck!” 

“But it’s your turn now.” 

“Not a bit of it. You must take one first. Be 
careful. Not too hard this time. That’s right. 
Good cast. By George, you’re into one! Steady, 
now. He’s coming upstream. Give him line. It is 
a big one. Steady — steady. Oh, he has bolted 
back again. He ’s well hooked. Reel in now steadily, 
slowly. I will land him. Keep a strain on the rod and 
let him run if he wants to. That’s right, give him 
line. Now, bring him in again.” John was almost 
as excited as the child as the fish came slowly in, 
half on its side showing a fin out of water. A last 
flop and John had it on the bank. 

“Two pounds if it’s an ounce, and played like a 
sportswoman. Nearly a record. Well done, Jean.” 

He took the rod. “We will fish down a bit farther. 
It’s getting too cold to stay long. But we will have 
many more days. I will give you a rod of your own.” 

114 


SHIFTING SANDS 


Her cup of happiness was brimming. 

The sun had set and the mists were filling the 
valley before the two, with a half-dozen smaller 
fish added to the bag, turned homeward. 

“You’ve enjoyed it?” John Erskine asked 
abruptly. 

Jean looked up at him, speechless with adoring 
eyes, and nodded . * 1 Have you ? ’ ’ 

1 1 Oh , I am a confirmed fisherman . I always love i t . ” 

“And have you fished very often in many places?” 

“Very often in very many.” 

“Where?” 

“ Here, and in Canada and Scotland and Norway.” 

“Were the fish very big? Was it more fun?” 

Her voice was wistful, but he did not notice it. 
His thoughts were far away in that wider life which 
he had voluntarily renounced. He could feel the 
spring of Scotch heather under his feet and see the 
party assembled at dinner in the evening. The 
brilliant table, the pretty women in pretty clothes, 
the keen faces of the men — all came back to him. 
He had given up the life of ease which they typified, 
just as he had given up the furtherance of his 
profession along lines that he loved in Paris. And 
all for what? For the hideous muddle he had made 
of it here. What a fool he had been — what a mad 
man! A sick wave of longing swept over him for 
what now could never be, for what now he could 
never achieve. In the weariness of the moment he 
sighed bitterly. 

ii5 


SHIFTING SANDS 


It did not need that to tell the child at his side 
that his heart was heavy within him. She had known 
it, as she always knew. But the sound gave her 
courage to slip her hand into his. His fingers tight- 
ened round it and held it fast while he fought down 
that moment of cowardice; then he drew the hand 
through his arm and they walked on in silence. 
When he spoke, it was in his usual voice. 

“I bet you, Jean, that I know what Martha will 
say.” 

“So do I ” 

“Well, then, what?” 

Jean laughed. “She’ll say, ‘Land sakes, Mr. 
John, more truck in my kitchen! No, take ’em out, 
I have n’t time.’ ” 

“Yes, and then what?” 

“Oh, then, she’ll say, ‘Well, if you caught ’em, 
I s’pose you must have ’em.’ ” 

“And then?” 

“She’ll end by taking them out of the bag, as 
pleased as we are, and she’ll ask you how you want 
them cooked.” 

“ Right — go up head.” As they turned in at the 
gate they met young Rufus Haines, hurrying along. 
His greeting of the doctor was almost modest in his 
admiration. 

“To choir practice?” John asked pleasantly. 

“Yes, at Miss Vincent’s. No one else could con- 
veniently have us. Good-night, Dr. Erskine.”, 


CHAPTER XIV 


“I hope the room won’t be too crowded,” Mrs. 
Vincent said as the first knock sounded on her door. 

“It does n’t matter, mother, if it is,” Lillian an- 
swered, going into the entry to open it. “It was 
good of you to have them at all.” 

“Good-evening. It’s Mr. Tanner, mother. Put 
your hat and coat on the stairs, please. There 
won’t be room on that hat-rack.” 

Mr. Tanner entered the room, walking stiffly 
with his knees together, in a state of painful em- 
barrassment. He had snatched time to go home and 
put on a light-blue necktie in place of the everyday 
black string tie which he wore as in some way sym- 
bolic of his connection through drugs with medicine 
and the mysteries of life and death. His sandy hair 
was wet and smooth with vigorous brushing, and 
his large thin ears looked unusually prominent de- 
prived of their ambush of locks. His high collar 
did not hide an Adam’s apple which seemed con- 
stantly running up and down behind it. His front 
teeth were so prominent that he could not keep his 
mouth shut, which gave him rather the look of a 
rabbit. 

Mrs. Vincent would have pitied his self-conscious- 
ness had she not known that his opinion of himself 
was high. 


SHIFTING SANDS 


After greeting her, he walked to the piano and 
solemnly scrutinised the music. Then, spreading his 
coat-tails, he sat down on the piano stool. 

“This is just what I wished to try over,” he an- 
nounced in a high-pitched voice, and he proceeded 
to pick out part of the anthem with one finger. 

Lillian returned her mother’s look of annoyance 
with a shake of the head and a tolerant smile, and 
ran to open the door for Miss Meeks, Mrs. Beebe 
and her niece, Milly Levis, a pretty girl of sixteen, 
who was making one of her periodical visits. She 
was a bright brunette, round and trim, with a pre- 
cocious manner, a nice girl, and a great admirer 
of Lillian. She had enough good feeling and good 
sense to blush on occasions for her aunt. The pres- 
ent was one of them, as Maria advanced impor- 
tantly and shook hands with Mrs. Vincent conde- 
scendingly. 

“Your room really ain’t big enough for choir 
practice, is it?” she said, looking around. “Though 
I must say quite pleasant for one or two. I ’d have 
been pleased to have it at my house, when I heard 
that Miss Savage could not have it at the parson- 
age as usual, but, you see, my best parlour is still 
shut up for the winter and I could n’t ask Mr. 
Beebe to give up the sitting-room and the dining- 
room has n’t any piano. We have so much room, it 
does seem a pity. But this is a nice little room, 
ain’t it, Milly?” 

“I have told you so before, aunt,” the girl re- 
118 


SHIFTING SANDS 


plied, colouring. “I like it better than any room 
I’ve ever been in,” she went on quickly, turning 
to Lillian. “ It’s just right, I think, and I am going 
to have one like it some day.” 

Lillian smiled and nodded as she went again to 
the door, speaking back over her shoulder, “Oh, 
it’s a poor little room. You should have seen the 
one I copied it from.” 

“Where was that?” Milly asked of Mrs. Vincent. 

“It was the head mistress’s sitting-room at Lil- 
lian’s school, I believe. She is a woman who has 
travelled a good deal and knows about how things 
should be, I guess. Good-evening, Mr. Haines. Do 
you know Miss Milly Levis? If not, let me make 
you acquainted.” 

The young man bowed with mock deference, his 
hand on his heart. “I have had the pleasure for 
some time,” he said, laughing, “but every time I 
see Miss Levis she has so outgrown my former im- 
pression of her — needless to say how! ” he looked 
round at the others, smiling — “that I have to be 
introduced all over again.” 

The young girl blushed at the compliment, and 
Lillian answered for her. “We know how much 
practice you must have had, Mr. Haines, to be so 
ready, don’t we, Milly?” 

“Unkind!” he exclaimed dramatically. Then, 
turning sharply, “Hullo, Tanner! You look rather 
dejected. What’s the matter? Been taking some 
of the wrong medicine? Cheer up! Let’s see, who 
119 


SHIFTING SANDS 


are we waiting for? We have our first sopranos — 
leading ladies, Miss Vincent, Miss Meeks — altos 
Mrs. Beebe, — good-evening, ma’am. Hope I see 
you in your usual health” — he bowed — “and 
in unusual voice, as the other alto is absent.” 

“I can sing second,” Milly ventured. 

“Good! Tenors, Mr. Tanner” — the gentleman 
in question cleared his throat — “and your humble 
servant. Bass — ah! Dave is the missing one.” 

“Shall we practise our parts separately until he 
comes?” Lillian suggested nervously. 

“Good act. We will that. Clear off that stool, 
Tanner. Let Miss Vincent sit down.” He adjusted 
the seat, placed the music for her with an attentive 
air which did not escape the mother, seated by her 
table in the background. He was certainly a brisk, 
good-looking young fellow, she thought, and they 
made a handsome pair as he leaned over the girl 
a moment, his dark head close to her fair one. 

At that instant, as the music began, the front door 
opened; there was a step in the hall. Lillian Vin- 
cent coloured, bending closer to the music. She did 
not look up as David Donner entered the room, 
though every one else spoke, Rufus Haines’s gay 
voice above the others. 

“Late again, Dave. We will have to fine you. 
Though you are such a bloated landowner that 
you won’t mind.” 

David Donner advanced without speaking. He 
was a big fellow, heavy of frame and somewhat 
120 


SHIFTING SANDS 


slow of mind. His hair, according to his mother, 
was “black as a raven’s wing”; it certainly had a 
romantic air of abundance, was blue-black, and 
framed a fine forehead. His face was clean-shaven 
and always wore a look of calm self-reliance com- 
bined with almost childlike simplicity. 

There was a rearrangement of the group as he 
joined it, speechless as usual. Lillian greeted him 
casually over her shoulder, apparently absorbed in 
the music before her. But he was content as long as 
he could stand behind her, and in turning her music, 
brush her shoulder with the lapel of his best coat. 

After an hour and a half of serious practising and 
much discussion, Lillian rose from the piano. 

“You play the accompaniment, Milly. It is time 
for me to get the coffee.” 

“Let me help you,” Mr. Haines said, whisking 
his handkerchief under his arm in mock mimicry 
of a waiter. 

“No, really,” Lillian said decidedly. “I don’t 
need any one, thank you. The kitchen is so small 
that two are too many.” 

“Really?” He looked comically crestfallen. 
“Console me, Miss Milly.” 

The young girl shook her head, following the 
music. Lillian disappeared, but returned shortly, 
and it was David who took the heavy tray full of 
cups from her hands at the door. 

The music ceased, and they all sat down to well- 
earned refreshment. 

121 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“It has been bully coming here to-night, Miss 
Vincent,” Rufus Haines said. “We owe Miss Sav- 
age thanks for the chance, though I’m sorry her 
father is ill.” 

“ It is not serious, is it?” Lillian asked. 

“No; Dr. Erskine says he’s been overworking; 
sitting up half the night and all day over his Greek 
and not eating regularly. So they’ve put him to 
bed for a rest, but the doctor says he ’s got his books 
piled up all round him and Miss Savage reading 
aloud to him! He’s a funny old gentleman!” 

“The doctor and Jean Dimmock have been fish- 
ing for trout,” Mr. Tanner vouchsafed importantly. 

Mrs. Beebe sniffed audibly. “I do feel sorry for 
Miss Roxina. She has her hands full with that child, 
I guess. The doctor spoils her so.” 

“Spoils her?” cried Lillian quickly. “How do 
you mean, Mrs. Beebe?” 

“Look at that new highfalutin’ carriage he’s got 
for her! And the airs she puts on.” 

“I don’t think she does,” Milly put in mildly. 

“ I call it goin’ too far,” her aunt went on, regard- 
less of the silence. “Do you remember, Laura 
Meeks, how poor the Dimmocks were? Why, I 
know they did n’t eat meat more than once a day. 
And now, see that child ! I wonder what his sisters 
would say.” 

Young Haines looked at the woman with scarcely 
concealed dislike, as he answered in his usual flip- 
pant manner, with an undercurrent of meaning. 

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“Oh, I gather, ma’am, that a small turn-out like 
that of Miss Jean’s wouldn’t be noticed by the doc- 
tor’s sisters. It would be too small an affair compared 
to their coaches and yachts and all the rest of it. 
They’re swells — regular swells. The one in Boston 
has married money and blue blood. No one better 
in this country. And the other married a lord.” 

“That’s all very well,” Maria cried, her cheek 
scarlet. “They may be great folks, but I’ll bet a 
dollar they would n’t sit by and see such goings-on.” 

“And I can’t hear such unkind criticism in my 
house of a man to whom we all owe so much,” Mrs. 
Vincent said quietly. “You won’t mind my saying 
so, will you, Mrs. Beebe? The doctor has been so 
good to Lillian and me — just as he is to Jean Dim- 
mock and every one else — that I should be un- 
grateful to listen in silence.” 

“You’re right there, Mrs. Vincent,” Rufus ex- 
claimed with enthusiasm. “ I always say he is a 
corker. Too good for Tacitus by a long way. Though 
I hope he won’t go as long as I have to remain.” 

Maria Beebe rose. “He certainly leads you all 
by the nose,” she said with an acid smile, “but I 
doubt if he would be much anywhere else or it stands 
to reason that he would not stay here. Come, 
Milly, say good-night. Are you coming, Laura 
Meeks? ’N’ you, Mr. Tanner?” 

Rufus had started to answer, but a warning 
glance from Lillian stopped him and he hurried to 
open the door for the departing guests. 

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“Did I say too much?” Mrs. Vincent exclaimed. 
“ I really could not let her go on.” 

“Not a bit,” Rufus Haines assured her. “She 
deserved it. Did you see that little worm, Tanner, 
sit and listen and never say a word? Why, the doc- 
tor took him in out of charity. It’s enough to make 
a fellow sick. Never said a word.” 

“Neither did David,” Lillian said mischievously, 
looking up at the big fellow. 

Rufus laughed. “Oh, David never does. But 
we always know that he’s on the right side. You 
can count on David!” 

David rose. “Good-night,” he said pleasantly. 

1 1 Good-night, Lillian. ’ ’ 

“Good-night,” Lillian answered. She still stood 
after he had passed into the hall. 

Mr. Haines took the hint. 

“ I see I’m to go, too. Good-night, Miss Lillian.” 

The two young men left the house together. 

“Why did you hurry Mr. Haines off ? ” her mother 
asked. “ I like him so much.” 

“So do I, mother. But I am tired, and I did n’t 
want him to stay after David. After all, David is 
my oldest friend.” 

“Yes,” her mother answered, setting the room 
to rights. “But one is a bright young fellow from 
the city with a profession and the other is only a 
farmer, after all.” 

“That’s so,” Lillian answered in a tired voice. 
“What a rude woman that is!” 


CHAPTER XV 


“Miss Jean, Miss Jean, the doctor wants you,” 
Martha called Jean in from the garden, a day or 
two later. 

As Jean reached the house, she found John Er- 
skine standing in the door. 

“Come,” he said sharply. “Get your hat and 
coat. I have to drive to Northern Mills. A man has 
been hurt. Hurry ! ’ ’ 

Jean, delighted at the summons, was ready on 
the steps when the carriage came round from the 
stable. The doctor glanced at her approvingly, 
helped her in and took his place by her side in the 
buggy, behind the pair of roadsters. He had not 
asked her if she would like to go with him, for a 
drive on such a day was a privilege, and they had 
twenty miles to cover. The doctor was silent, and 
Jean, catching the mood, became mouse-like. Be- 
sides, a country wayside in May is company enough 
for any one. Everything had its part in the joyous 
spring song; the blossoming fruit trees, the road- 
side purple with violets, the greening trees, the 
yellow of cowslip marshes, the flitting and carolling 
of birds, the blue of the sky, the low sailing clouds 
and the soft wind sang the wonderful glad song of 
awakening to Jean. She sighed. 

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The doctor turned. She looked up at him and 
smiled. 

“Oh! it was a happy sigh — was it?” he said. 

She nodded shyly. 

“Jean,” he said incisively, “remember. There is 
nothing in the world — no pleasure — no amuse- 
ment — no corner of greatness or grandeur in any 
town ever built in any country that can equal the 
joy of a mile of May in a green land.” 

She nodded again. John Erskine laughed at her 
serious face. 

“Paris in May!” he added scornfully. 11 Paris 
in May, Jean!” He stopped short, the light dying 
from his face, and now he, in his turn, sighed. “ Paris 
in May,” he repeated in a low voice. And then he 
turned and looked over the little valley, enclosed by 
hills, up whose fertile basin their road was winding. 

“ It is a fair prospect, Jean,” he said. 

“Tell me about Paris in May,” she begged. The 
words had taken her fancy. “When were you 
there, — long ago? ” 

“Long ago,” he answered. “Very long ago.” 

Jean looked up, studying his face. “It could not 
be very ,” she said. “ I don’t think you are a bit old — 
generally. Not nearly as old as papa — but other 
times — There now! You look old — old.” 

“ I am old, Jean,” he said. 

She knew that she had hurt him. But how? She 
sank back, miserable. She hated the look that she 
brought sometimes to his face — a look half-fear, 
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half-pain. She had seen it just now twist his lips 
and bring the beads of moisture to his forehead. 
She looked up at him with worshipping eyes. He 
was the most wonderful man in the country, every 
one said. Perhaps in all the world. 

John Erskine was absorbed in his thoughts. But, 
mindful of the child, he roused himself. 

“Paris in May,” he said with an effort, his mind 
returning to Jean’s request. “Lilacs, Jeanie, and 
blue haze along the quays and — ” He stopped. 
“Green and gold,” he said. “Sunshine and gossa- 
mer — a prism city. It is in your hands to turn it 
as you will. Catch light from heaven or — hell. 
No — no, Jean. Paris in May does not hold a candle 
to this — but — there ’s the blue haze along the 
quays.” 

“Why don’t you go there?” she asked softly, 
but there was a quiver in her voice. 

1 1 Why ? My work is here, J ean, ’ ’ he said decidedly. 
“Can anything compare with this blue above us 
and the green down the meadow? And we should 
miss the birds, Jeanie. Mr. Browning’s ‘thrush who 
sings his song twice over’ has no place in Paris. 
Ah, Jean, if we could ever recapture the first fine 
careless rapture. But we can’t. Gone, Jean, and 
we are on our way to help a man who is hurt — 
crushed out of life, perhaps — at the mills.” 

He relapsed into silence. Jean twisted her fingers 
under the robe in her endeavour to muster courage 
for speech. 


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“Please don’t !” she jerked out finally. “You are 
so good.” 

He started. “Good!” he cried. “Good God! 
Never say that again. Do you hear? I am doing 
my duty, that is all.” 

At his harsh tone, the tears started, but they were 
stopped before Dr. Erskine could notice them, and 
a few moments later, a little before noon, they drove 
into the village of Northern Mills. 

Northern Mills is a collection of flimsy wooden 
structures on the edge of the North Woods. 

Here, where the logs come down the creek from 
the mountains, the sawmills stand, and gathered 
about them, with no attempt at symmetry, are the 
unpainted, weather-beaten wooden buildings which 
house the men employed in milling or logging; and 
raised above them on a hill to the right stand the 
company store and the one miserable hostelry that 
the place possesses. 

This hotel boasts, as do most of its kind, of an 
undersized billiard table and an oversized bar, and 
exists more for the quenching of immoderate thirsts 
than for the housing of modest travellers. As the 
doctor drove up to the narrow porch, the only sign 
of life was supplied by a man, the proprietor, who 
sat tipped back in a Congress chair against the wall 
by the barroom door, his hat on the back of his 
head and his feet on the railing. At sight of the 
doctor he let down the front legs of his chair, sat 
up, stretched his shirt-sleeved arms, shifted the 
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quid of tobacco he was chewing, spit copiously 
under the railings into the street, rose, pushed his 
hat forward on his head, and finally came with a 
slovenly gait down the steps, where the doctor had 
stopped his horses. 

“B’lieve they’re waiting fer yer, Doctor,” he 
said with a nod. “ Jim’s a goner, I guess.” 

“Call your wife, man,” Dr. Erskine answered 
shortly. “Get down, Jean. Here, Mrs. Osborne, 
I must leave Jean in your care. She has her lunch- 
eon. It’s in the basket behind. Take care of your- 
self, my dear. Jump in here, Osborne; I will drive 
on to the mill and you can take back the horses.” 

Osborne climbed into the wagon with loose- 
limbed alacrity. The doctor lifted the reins and they 
were off. 

Jean stood watching them go. 

“You don’t mind your pa’s leavin’ you, do you?” 
the woman asked. 

She was a meagre creature dressed in a dingy 
calico wrapper, her hair and eyes alike pale and 
faded. She looked the very spirit of her bare, un- 
lovely surroundings. Yet so short a way from her 
door were the beauty of the spring, the majesty of 
the forest and the mountain peace. 

“Dr. Erskine is not my father,” Jean answered 
quietly; “and of course he must go to the man.” 

The woman led the way into a small bare room 
whose only furniture was a large mirror in a black 
frame, shrouded in pink mosquito netting, a long 
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narrow table covered with red-and-white oilcloth, a 
few kitchen chairs, and a pair of tin spittoons on the 
dirty floor. 

“ You ’ll be all right here,” the woman said. “No- 
body comes in here. Unless you ’d rather come into 
the kitchen? The baby’s teethin’ and frettin’ a 
good deal. Have you all you want?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Jean answered. 

“Your pa — the doctor, I mean — won’t be 
back for a long while, so you can settle down. I ’m 
a newcomer here — we come from up the creek 
a piece, but I hear tell often of the doctor. He’s a 
kind man.” 

Jean flushed with sudden resentment. How could 
any one know how kind he was! She wished the 
woman would go. She would not open her little 
hamper till she was alone. Fortunately the teething 
baby now made itself heard, and the woman re- 
gretfully turned to leave. “He sut’nly is kind,” 
she repeated, “givin’ help and food and money’s 
well as doctorin’. That child can scream. Nothin’ 
the matter with his lungs — Cornin’, Howard 
Osborne!” 

Jean had wondered a little how she should spend 
the time of Dr. Erskine’s absence with the thought 
of the injured man for company, but her doubts 
vanished when she found, at the bottom of her bas- 
ket, a copy of the “Morte d’Arthur.” Dr. Erskine 
had promised it to her last week, and he had remem- 
bered it to-day. 


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Between mouthfuls of chicken sandwiches, — 
the chicken shredded and browned in butter in 
Martha’s own delectable manner, — she made ac- 
quaintance with the great book of romance, for- 
getting Northern Mills, Jim, the bare hotel, the 
ugly room, place, and time, as page after page un- 
folded the sublimated fairy tale for her enchant- 
ment. 

Mrs. Osborne looked in upon her once or twice 
as the afternoon waned, but she received no en- 
couragement to linger from the figure in the hard 
chair, leaning with arms on the table and head over 
an open book. 

When the doctor finally came himself to call her, 
Jean started up with dazed eyes and a tired, flushed 
face. She looked at him, unseeing, for an instant. 

“Wake up, Jean,” he commanded. “The horses 
are waiting.” 

“I wasn’t asleep,” she protested, following him 
to the door, with the book under her arm. She 
climbed dreamily into the buggy and sat down. 
As he took his place by her side, the doctor felt her 
shiver. 

“Put on your coat,” he said irritably. “I don’t 
want you ill on my hands.” 

It was not until they were out of the town that 
Jean remembered the object of their drive. 

“Oh, the man!” 

“ Dead.” The doctor’s voice was stern. 

Launcelot and Perceval, Boris and Medor van- 

131 


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ished down the vale of romance at this touch of 
reality. “And I never once thought of him,” she 
cried with a little gasp. “What can I do?” 

“Nothing. You forgot, selfishly. You cannot 
undo that forgetting, but you can face your fault — 
not run away from it. Do you hear?” 

“It was the book — ” she began. 

“The book!” he exclaimed; “the book! and later, 
it is what? A woman, a career, fame — our selfish- 
ness seeks an excuse. Self — self — self.” The 
words came fiercely. 

Jean, but half-understanding, yet ashamed, drew 
back in her corner. The sun was near its setting. 
The valley air was chill. Another mile in a silence 
broken only by the pleasant rhythm of the trotting 
horses’ hoofs. Then suddenly John Erskine roused 
himself from the bitter reverie into which he had 
fallen and looked at the child. 

“Jean, you are cold.” He drew in the horses. 
“We’ll stop a moment and wrap up. Draw up the 
robe. Let me put it well round you — whoa — 
here’s the cape. Now, are you snug? You are get- 
ting to be a big girl, Jean. A big girl needs friends.” 

“ I have you.” 

“A nice friend! An old person. No, I may do for 
a guide and philosopher, but you need younger 
friends.” He struck the horses with a sharp flick. 

Jean laughed the gay little laugh that came sel- 
dom. “It’s so funny to hear you,” she said. “You 
really don’t think that any one in Tacitus could be 
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as young a friend as you! No one half as amusing 
as you are.” 

“I wasn’t thinking of Tacitus.” He refused to 
be anything but serious. “But of New York, of 
Boston.” The words fell gravely. John Erskine 
was far away, thinking of many things. 

The silence that followed was so long that he 
finally noticed it and turned to look down at the 
child by his side. Her head under the little round 
hat with the scarlet wing was turned from him, and 
the black hair shaded the small face. But the slender 
figure was tense. He knew that her hands were 
tightly clasped under the robe. 

“ My dear — what is it? ” 

At the kind voice, she drew a long breath. “I 
don’t want to go.” In her tone there was an odd 
mingling of obstinacy and supplication. 

“Go?” 

“To New York — or Boston. I don’t want to.” 
She rushed on. “I have lived here always — papa 
and mamma lived here — I belong here — I don’t 
want to go — you have no right to make me — ” 
Her voice was shaking. 

His kindliness checked a laugh. 

“You certainly shall not go while you feel like 
this about it — not against your will.” 

She felt rather silly. She knew that he hated any 
lack of self-control. 

He divined her feelings and wished to save her 
pride. “Here’s a good bit of road,” he said, as they 
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rounded a bend and saw a stretch of smooth coun- 
try going before them. “The pair are quiet. Take 
the reins and drive for a bit. Remember what I 
have told you. Look out for the off one — he still 
shies. ,, 

Taken out of herself by this unlooked-for privi- 
lege, for the spirited pair were a recent purchase, 
she sat up alert, the colour rushing to her sensitive 
face, her eyes flashing as she took the reins. 

John Erskine watched her critically as she handled 
the horses. They tossed their heads restively as they 
felt the change of hand, but he saw that she kept 
a firm, light grip on them. 

“Very good,’' he commented, as he finally laid 
his hand over hers as they neared the village. “You 
drive very well. Another day, another lesson. Keep 
the point of your whip up, remember, if you want 
to drive with style.’ ’ 

“It is such fun. I have had such a lovely day,” 
she answered. Then, with a slight hesitation, but a 
certain dignity as well, she turned and looked at 
him. “Your promise. You know you promised.” 

“Promised?” 

“About New York, or anywhere.” She smiled. 
“You did ! And you promised other things the other 
day! To give me more books to read, and to let 
me stay in the study with you and to give me les- 
sons. I must learn such a lot. And can’t I help you 
with your book? I think I could.” 

“So you can.” With a smile that wonderfully 
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changed his face, he put his arm around her, and 
drew her to him. As he did so, his words of the after- 
noon returned to him. Only doing his duty? But 
the duty had become so sweet. The child had grown 
into his heart. If duty and pleasure were one, how 
should the balance be struck? He quickly put the 
child away from him. 


CHAPTER XVI 


As the time slipped by, Constance Savage had found 
that the difference which she and her father made 
in John Erskine’s life was rather negative than posi- 
tive. She would not own to herself that she was dis- 
appointed. 

It was inevitable that they should often meet 
in the village. Constance had been born with the 
vocation to help, and she was generally to be found 
where there was illness or trouble. She was sure to 
follow John in his ministrations when she did not 
actually precede him, and at these times she saw him 
at his best, saw the skill and the strength as well 
as the humour which he put at the service of his 
people. 

He always seemed glad to see her, teased her a 
little about stealing his practice, asked for her 
father, and that was the end. It was seldom that 
he came to the house, unless her father was ill. 
When he did, Mr. Savage seized him and carried 
him off to his study, where he feverishly stated his 
latest difficulty and begged for John’s advice. 

With every prospect for it fair, the friendship did 
not seem to grow beyond a polite and very sincere 
mutual regard. 

How much of this was due to the small disturb- 
ing influence of Jean, neither of them realised. That 
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she was disturbing, there was no doubt. Indeed, 
when it came to any question of Constance other 
than that of music, she was either quietly, unob- 
trusively obstinate or elfishly perverse. 

“Marian Gray writes me that she has written 
to you again, asking you to allow Jean to visit her,” 
Constance said as she and John came down from 
her father’s bedroom. They paused at the door of 
the sitting-room. 

“May I come in?” he asked. 

“ Please do.” It was long since he had asked this 
permission. She was very happy. There was a 
quiet joy in offering him the deepest chair, in seeing 
him comfortable in her room, by her fireside. 

“Yes, Marian has written again,” John said, “but 
Jean will not go.” 

Constance smiled. “ Will not,” she said. 

“ At least she does not want to,” John amended 
hastily; “and I see no reason why she should under- 
go the ordeal if she feels as she does.” 

Constance frowned slightly, looking intently at 
the fire. “No,” she said slowly; “unless it is for her 
own good. You probably know best.” There was 
silence for a moment ; then Constance went on slowly, 
“She is a very difficult child to understand. Just 
when I think that I have broken down the barrier 
finally and may get to know her, I find that, intan- 
gible as it is, she has raised it again.” 

“Really.” John’s voice was not hearty. 

“Yes, really,” she repeated warmly, looking up. 

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41 1 have come to the conclusion that Jean does n’t 
like me. It is a confession of failure, and I am humil- 
iated.” Her voice was full of feeling. 

“Oh, I am sure that you are mistaken,” John 
interposed hurriedly. “She is very fond of you, 
Miss Savage, I know. And she is most interested 
in her music.” 

“In her music! Ah, yes. There you are quite 
right. And since I am the only medium through 
which she can arrive at it, she tolerates me. Truly, 
it’s nothing more. She is the most interesting child, 
musically, that I have ever met. Outside of that, 
we simply do not touch. I am sorry it is so, but so 
it is.” 

“I am sorry, too,” John Erskine said, after a 
moment’s silence. “Jean has so few possible com- 
panions here.” His voice was disheartened. 

Constance Savage looked up. “Oh, you must not 
worry about her,” she said earnestly. “ I have never 
seen a girl who seemed to live a happier life. How 
you’ve done it, I don’t see. There seems to be no 
shadow left.” 

John Erskine rose. “You don’t know,” he said. 
“Jean feels intensely. When she is happy, she is 
happy, yet there are times when she suffers, too. But 
about Marian’s letter. You would not make her go? ” 

Constance hesitated. “It seems a pity that she 
should not go, and get to know Marian’s children. 
It would be more normal, would n’t it?” 

“Yes,” John agreed. “For the ordinary child, 
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it would be the thing to do. But for Jean, I am not 
so sure. Now, I must be off. I ’ve a long drive before 
me yet. Of course I do not need to tell you how 
much I appreciate all that you have done for Jean. 
I am very grateful.” 

'‘Please don’t,” she said with quiet firmness. 
“I don’t want thanks. I only wish — but never 
mind!” She put out her hand. “We may be better 
friends as she grows older. Did father tell you that 
he has arranged an exchange for the summer? That 
we want to get to the sea?” 

“I am afraid you find us a dull lot,” he said, 
looking at her for the first time with concern. 

She returned his glance honestly. “No,” she 
said, “to be truthful, I don’t. I like Tacitus. But 
I am fond of my friends, and I shall be glad to meet 
some of them again at York Harbour.” 

“Don’t be gone too long,” he said, “when you 
do go. Your pensioners would find it hard to do 
without you.” 

“That’s nice of you,” she answered. “But the 
people here really care about no one living as long 
as they have you.” 

“We disagree there,” he declared. “Keep your 
father away from his books if you can. But don’t 
wear yourself out. Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye,” she answered. 

He was gone, polite as always — so unfailingly 
polite — Well, she asked herself, what more did 
she want? 


CHAPTER XVII 


John Erskine had long since kept his promise to 
Jean. He had realised when she had outgrown Miss 
Roxina and he had taken her teaching into his own 
hands. 

She prepared her lessons in the mornings and they 
worked together in the study from five to seven. 
These were hours full of delight and interest to both 
the man and the girl. Jean was eager to work, am- 
bitious to excel, and exceptionally intelligent. She 
liked Latin, history, and literature, but found mathe- 
matics difficult. It was consequently on these that 
the doctor insisted, drilling her with infinite time and 
labour, demonstrating and explaining until, from 
a thorough dislike of these subjects, she grew to 
an interest in them, seeing there not dull facts and 
figures only, but the wide field they gave for the 
imaginative faculty. 

It was not only in actual learning that she gained, 
however, but from the daily intercourse with a man 
of trained mind — from the long talks that inter- 
spersed and followed the lessons. Talks not con- 
fined to the daily subjects, but which, prompted 
by the books or the journals which lay on the study- 
table, ranged over wide topics. He told her of 
places and people. He interested her in France and 
Germany, then started her on French and German. 

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At all times he put his thoughts and theories into 
words for her. 

“What I want to give you, Jean, are wide sym- 
pathies, a wide outlook,” he explained one night 
when they were in their accustomed places in the 
study, John in his deep chair, leaning back, his legs 
outstretched, and Jean at the writing-table, facing 
him, “Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard” open before 
her. The blue curtains were drawn at the high win- 
dows, a fire burned on the hearth, the big shaded 
lamps were lighted, and the whole room glowed with 
the subdued colour of rugs, pictures, and the bind- 
ings of many books. “Women have the faults of 
their position as homekeepers, ’ * he went on. “ While 
we have for centuries lived a life in touch with gen- 
eral interests, women have been kept within four 
walls. So they are apt to be petty, narrow — ” 

Jean nodded. “I know,” she said; “but I won’t.” 

John stopped, looking at her over the pipe he 
was lighting. What a keen face it was, with its 
wide forehead and luminous eyes, its faint flush 
now of interest, as she talked, her eyes on the paper 
before her. 

“No, I won’t, J.E. Because I detest it!” She 
looked up. “But it’s funny, J.E., the pettiness — 
it isn’t all women. First, there’s Cousin Roxina, 
who teaches me her religion and pettys over every- 
body else’s way of thinking. Then there’s dear, 
darling Mr. Owens, who gives me some of his reli- 
gion, and he pettys over the Methodists; and I dare 
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say that Mr. Bowles would give me another point 
of view and would petty most awfully over us. And, 
by the way, J.E., I’ve wanted to tell you. May I 
believe what I please? Or must I believe what they 
tell me? And if I believe what I am told — which? 
About God, I mean — those things — ” 

“ Those things,” John Erskine repeated. He was 
aware of the incongruity of such words in this old 
house. 

“ Yes, J.E.,” impatiently ; “ God and dying, heaven 
and the rest. When I feel, back in my mind, that 
things are not true, must I believe them?” 

“No.” He answered deliberately. 

“Good, J.E. I knew you’d say that! You see, 
it ’s not that I don’t want to believe anything Cousin 
Roxina tells me — I just can't believe! When she 
solemnly says — 

‘ ’T is religion that doth give 
Lasting pleasures while we live; 

’T is religion must supply 
Sweetest comfort when we die,’ — 

I do not believe it. You see, religion does not give 
me half the pleasure that riding or music or work 
> does, for instance. And I’m sure it won’t help 
me when I die, unless I have done a few of the 
things I want to do — • ” She paused, interrogating 
him with her eyes. But as he continued to smoke 
gravely without answering, she went on — “I don’t 
think people use their minds in believing. Cousin 
Rox does n’t, nor Martha — oh, heaps don’t. They 
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are just poured into a believe mould when they are 
little. There are lots of moulds, J.E.” She was 
carried away by her idea. “There are moulds for 
everything we ought to do and think. People get 
set in them like jelly and turn out all in the right 
shape. Only a few don’t have enough stiffening 
and they squash down and spread all out and trickle 
about. That’s me! I’m trickling all over.” She 
laughed ruefully. 

“Well,” John’s voice halted her. It conveyed 
reproof. 

“There. You got that tone in a mould when you 
were little, J.E.! That’s part of what I can’t do. 
I hate making my voice different and looking sol- 
emn when I speak of God or dying. Can’t you see, 
J.E.?” She struck the table with an impatient fist. 
“I want to take it all as just part of living. I can’t 
explain, but it makes me go all hot and mad when 
people hush their voices in a kind of pretend to talk 
of these things. I just want to shout, ‘ Hullo, God,* 
and laugh when I say it. Of course I would n't, 
J.E. But” — -she drew a long breath- — -“I hate 
pretending.” She drew lines on the blotter, her fore- 
head puckered for a moment. “ I think everything’s 
odd,” she announced sweepingly. 

“So do I,” John agreed grudgingly. He was sur- 
prised at himself. Of late the strangeness of life 
had ceased to amaze him. Was it because he was 
growing older that his mind had resorted to an 
inherited acceptance of divine ordination? 

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“ Do you?” Jean was delighted. “Do you really 
think everything odd, J.E.? Because most people 
don’t see that anything could be different.” 

“Most people!” John Erskine mocked. 

“Oh, I know from books,” she declared, “and 
from Tacitus. They take what they see, and what 
is told them, as the only thing that can be.” 

“How do you know that it is n’t?” 

It was her turn for scorn. “ Because I know. And 
I think, probably, most of what is, is n’t right — 
was n’t meant.” 

John Erskine sat up in his chair. “What’s this?” 

She nodded, laughing back. * ‘ Because nearly every 
one — not you and me — has been blind to what 
really is meant — ” She stopped. “I am muddled. 
Yet, I know what I mean, J.E. Just to always see 
the truth — and go for it.” She was looking at him, 
yet beyond him. “You know, J.E.,” she said. 

“I know — I know,” he repeated under his 
breath; “oh, I know, Jean.” He stopped short. “I 
wanted to teach you — I wanted — ” He stopped 
again. “ I want every good thing for you, my child,” 
he added slowly, with unusual feeling in his voice. 

Jean broke the silence that followed. 

“Shall I go on reading, J.E.?” 

“Poor child,” he sighed. “Why should you be 
obliged to suffer my moods? Yes — go on. Where 
did we leave off last night?” 

“Where Bonnard is turned away from the school 
gates.” 


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“I remember. Go on. Read slowly and mind 
your accent.” 

“I hate it, you know,” she said ruefully. “I am 
sure that it does not sound in the least like French.” 

He smiled. ‘‘It’s a fair imitation. Go ahead.” 

“But aren’t you rather bored with him, J.E.? 
He is a silly old thing.” 

“Don’t be impertinent.” 

She turned a coaxing face to him. “I am rather 
tired of it, J.E. You said that I might begin to help 
you with your work to-night.” 

“Work.” His eyes brightened. “Well, put it 
aside for to-night, then, since you are out of the 
mood. It is too good to slight. If you really want 
to help me — ” He crossed the room to his desk 
between the windows, failing to realise how clev- 
erly the girl had turned his depression to interest. 

“ If you ’d like to,” he said with boyish eagerness, 
“you can verify these references for me after sup- 
per. There is such a mass of stuff to get through. 
I will show you how, Jean. You can be a great help. 
It is the detail in a work like this that takes the 
time. This is a package of German textbooks on 
the subject which has just come. When you are 
more advanced, you can help me very much with 
the translations.” 

She stood at his shoulder, her face keen. Some- 
thing in her, the heritage of New England, longed 
for difficult proving, longed for a test that should 
try her. She wished that she might forego something 
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that she liked to prevail. She was tense with ambi- 
tion. All that was hard seemed glorious. All that 
was easy, despicable. 

Body like mind shared in this. The joy in the 
cold bath in the morning, in the fatigue after exer- 
cise, were part of this aspiration. She longed to 
be tempered like steel — as cold and as pure. A 
flame burned in her grey eyes. Her voice in its 
strength of purpose surprised him, used as he was 
to her unexpectedness. 

“ Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I shall work. It’s 
splendid, and perhaps I should never have known 
it if it had not been for you.” 

“Good,” he said gaily, rising. “That’s all right. 
We shall do great things together if you feel like 
that. But we must n’t be late for supper. Cousin 
Roxina has a grievance against us now.” 

As he opened the door for Jean to pass out, he 
added, “I saw Miss Savage to-day. She asked me 
if I thought you could drive her to make a call 
somewhere to-morrow. What it is to be mistress of 
a horse and trap ! I told her you would be there at 
three o’clock. Is that all right?” 

Her reply was inaudible. He sighed impatiently. 
What a pity that Constance Savage’s hope did not 
come to pass. It would make it all so much simpler 
if only Jean could become attached to her. As he 
passed through the hall, he glanced at Jean, going 
up the dimly lit stair. He thought that it was a 
gloomy house for a young girl. But, as she reached 
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the landing, she turned, and, smiling, kissed her 
hand to him. It was a slight thing, charmingly 
done, but it reassured John. She could not be very 
unhappy with him and yet look like that, he thought. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Outwardly calm, but inwardly strained and un- 
comfortable, Jean sat in her scarlet-wheeled run- 
about the next day, waiting at the parsonage steps 
for Miss Savage. She had never felt at ease with 
Constance, for a preconceived dislike had poisoned 
their intercourse. In the grip of it Jean lost all her 
charm, her gaiety, and originality. In Constance’s 
presence, she became a silent, stolid child, talking 
in strangled monosyllables. Ashamed, and in a vain 
endeavour to excuse herself, she told herself that 
Constance criticised her, found her dull and stupid. 

Yet, always, as to-day, the sight of Constance 
gave the lie to her own absurd self- vindication, 
while it did not remove the latent antagonism which 
both felt, yet neither could explain. 

Now, as Jean politely tucked the green robe 
around her, Constance tried to say the right and 
pleasant thing. 

“Dr. Erskine said that you would come for me. 
He is always so kind. Are you sure you did not 
mind? I want so much to go out and see Mrs. Bul- 
lock, George’s mother. He was doing some work 
for me yesterday and he said that she was ill enough 
to be in bed, and from what I could get out of him 
there is not much food fit for a sick woman to eat 
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in the house. You know where they live — the 
other side of the Sand Hill.” 

“I think I know. I have never been there — 
never been to the Sand Hill. But you can see it 
for miles down the other valley.” 

“Never been! How odd, Jean. I thought you 
knew every foot of this country.” 

“It has just happened, I suppose. Besides, the 
road does not lead to anywhere, and when I drive 
with J.E., he is always making his rounds. But it’s 
quite easy to go. It’s out beyond the cemetery.” 
She flicked the cob, which trotted briskly away up 
the street. 

“What a perfect fall day!” the elder woman ex- 
claimed. “I don’t think any place is more beauti- 
ful than this valley in the autumn. Such glorious 
air! Isn’t it clear! And the intense blue sky and 
the great white clouds — and then, the colouring 
of the trees on the hills. Look at that dash of scar- 
let over there and the yellows and crimsons beyond ! ” 

Jean, vibrating to the colour, deliberately shut 
her ears to the pleasant commonplaces. 

The cob followed the road which rose gradually 
out of the village to the top of the hill. There they 
had a view of the valley at their backs, where the 
blue smoke curled up from chimneys nestling in 
trees now turned every gorgeous hue. Here, a mile 
from the village, was the tiny, brown wooden sta- 
tion. The station ’bus which ran to the village 
stood waiting for the daily train from Attica. One 
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or two men lounging about the steps nodded to 
Jean and Constance. In Tacitus they never take 
off their hats. 

Once across the railroad track the view spread 
wide and glorious as far as the eye could reach. It 
always reminded Jean of the pictures of the Holy 
Land in the big Bible. It was just such a wide land, 
rolling to the horizon, dotted with single stately 
elms, instead of palms, and watered by the wide 
Canada Creek instead of the Jordan. Off to the 
right a rise of land showed white shafts amid the 
green of hemlocks — the graveyard. 

Their road led straight down along the creek 
where the waysides were full of the treasures of 
autumn, every corner overflowing with crimson 
sumac, tall goldenrod, and purple and lavender 
asters. 

“How lovely it is,” Constance said. “So beauti- 
ful that one is tempted to try and express it. Dr. 
Erskine says that you know a great deal of poetry.” 

“Yes, I do.” Jean was keenly self-conscious. 

“Won’t you say some to me? I am so fond of it.” 

Jean touched the cob. “Oh, I only know stupid 
old things that everybody knows,” she said quickly. 

All through the field that bordered the road the 
great orange pumpkins burned, and the Indian 
corn stood stacked, like little wigwams, the tasselled 
ends fluttering in the winds. A hawk floated high 
over the creek upon wide pinions. 

» It was one of those brilliant fall days when the 
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world seems held in a crystalline spell, suspended 
in its perfection for a poignant moment before 
change and dissolution, and Jean was penetrated 
by the beauty of it all, heart contracted, eyes stung 
with tears. 

Yet Constance at her side, longing for some hold 
upon her affection, was unmoved by her emotion — • 
ignorant thereof. She talked pleasantly of the hun- 
dred and one small matters of which village life is 
made and wondered much to find the girl at her 
side so unresponsive. 

Suddenly, with a whisk of his tail, the cob was 
turned off the main road that wound its way on to 
Attica. 

“The cemetery,” Constance said in a hushed 
voice. 

They creaked up the rise of ground and Jean 
touched the cob with the whip without turning 
to look in at the iron gates. 

“I hope they’ll have a good day for to-morrow,” 
Constance said. “It’s the cemetery picnic.” 

“Yes, I know.” Jean’s voice was constrained. 
“I have to walk over early with Cousin Roxina. 
It ’s really too far for her to walk, but she is afraid 
of horses.” 

Constance relapsed into silence. She was think- 
ing of the tragedy here which had given this child 
into John Erskine’s care. 

The road ran on now between neglected fields, 
then changed to a grassy wood track where the run- 

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about ran noiselessly. The soil had changed from 
loam to sand. The thin wood growth was of pine 
and white birch, the ground was patterned with 
running evergreen. The cob slowed down to a walk 
and Jean woke to a curious joy in the place. Here, 
of all certainty, one was near to that unseen some- 
thing that she felt so strongly. Why had she never 
been here before? To this place she would return. 

The road left the wood and entered a waste of 
white sea-sand — yet the sea was two hundred 
miles away. There were pine trees away to the left, 
and before them the track was lost in places where 
the sand had drifted. 

“What a strange place,” Constance exclaimed. 
“It seems a pity that it can’t be reclaimed. But I 
suppose nothing would grow here.” 

“No.” 

“ Rather a dismal place to live in, is n’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“I suppose the Bullocks put their shanty here 
because the land has no value. They are squatters. 
It is just a little way ahead around the bend. You 
will see, the road creeps across a gully and the house 
clings to the edge on the other side.” 

“Yes.” 

The jutting sandbank rounded, Jean gave an 
exclamation. The road was cut in the side of a steep 
gully where the sand slipped and slid year after 
year. At the far side of this gully clung a hut. There 
Jean drew rein. Constance got out with her basket 
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of food and knocked. A man answered. The door 
was opened and Constance went in. In a moment 
the door again opened and a man came out. Though 
she knew all the people for miles around by sight, 
Jean could not remember ever having seen this 
face before. He was a tall man, and his dress and 
bearing made Jean think him a North Woods trap- 
per. He carried an old shot-gun. He was scowling 
as he stepped out, but stopped short at sight of 
Jean and nodded. She bowed, expecting him to 
pass on, but he stood still. 

“ 1 know ye,” he said bluntly. 

Jean smiled. “I don’t think you do,” she said, 
“unless you have seen me with Dr. Erskine. I live 
with him.” 

He shook his head. “Before that. I knew your 
pa and your ma. They been here — come to see 
me, too. You favour your mother. You be as dark 
as she.” 

“My mother came here!” Jean cried. 

The man laughed shortly. “Queer place. She 
came with your pa, the minister.” He took a step 
away, then stopped. “See here, I hate all this 
damned meddling,” he said. “The old woman’s 
got enough to eat. I ’ll feed her, don’t you fret.” 

He turned on his heel, then again turned back. 
“What d’ye come for?” he asked. “Aren’t ye 
afraid of the sand slippin’? Your ma was. She is,” 
he pointed into the house, — “the old woman is — 
and the boy. It won’t slip before its time. Good- 
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day to ye — and don’t come again — we don’t want 
ye.” 

Jean sat staring at him with amazed, indignant 
eyes. “ Your wife’s ill,” she said; “George said so.” 

He nodded. “Then it’s the doctor’s business, not 
yourn,” he said shortly. “ He can come if he wants. 
He came to me.” He nodded, and went up the bank, 
behind the hut. 

Constance came out a moment later. “Poor 
thing — she’s cowed,” she said. “I suppose she 
can never be well. George is a comfort to her, she 
says. I imagine that the man is a brute.” 

Jean turned the carriage. “He remembers my 
father and mother,” she said. “They once came 
here.” 

The drive back was silent, and once at home Jean 
ran up to her bedroom in no happy mood, pulling 
off her hat and coat. Inside the closed door, she 
clenched her hands. 

“Oh, Jean Dimmock, what a wretch you are — 
mean, sneaking, contemptible, supercilious little 
cat. What would J.E. say if he knew!” She caught 
up the brush and, standing before the glass, gazed 
steadily at the small, intense face which gazed back 
at her. “You be decent, do you hear!” she admon- 
ished. The image in the glass frowned back at her. 
She fell to brushing her heavy black hair, her eyes 
still holding the eyes in the glass. “Wretched little 
thing,” she adjured herself; and then, pitching the 
brush on the bed, went down to supper. 


CHAPTER XIX 


“ I wish that we did not have to go before the peo- 
ple came,” Jean declared the next morning, as she 
and Miss Roxina climbed the stone wall by the steps 
which led out of the graveyard to the path through 
the fields to the village. “I have never been at a 
cemetery picnic. It seems rather snobbish not to 
stay.” 

Miss Roxina did not answer directly, but trotted 
anxiously along the path, intent on getting home. 

Jean, who was talking idly, went on — “Mr. 
Savage never comes — nor Miss Savage.” 

“They have no folks buried here,” Miss Roxina 
explained. “And there is no reason for our staying 
because Cousin John pays Mr. Spiller to take care 
of our lots. They are the only ones in the graveyard 
that are properly looked after; all that we have to 
do is to take the flowers over to decorate the graves. 
They looked beautiful to-day. Every one will see 
them — the pansy wreath and the white cross. If 
we hurry, Jean, we will be home by half-past ten. 
Martha must give you a glass of milk and a ginger 
cake before you begin to study.” 

Jean laughed. “It would n't hurt anybody if I 
stayed,” she said carelessly. “ I hate taking over the 
flowers just because people will see them.” 

“Not just because,” Cousin Roxina corrected. 

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“But it is fitting that our plots should look remem- 
bered. Come, don’t dawdle, Jean.” 

For answer Jean darted ahead along the path 
down the steep hill, and vaulted the fence at the 
bottom where she stopped short, waiting. 

“If I didn’t run away from her sometimes, I 
should burst,” she said to herself as she braided her 
hair which had shaken loose. A moment later the 
old lady joined her and they sedately entered the 
village together. 

Meanwhile, vehicles, converging from all parts, 
met at the cemetery gate. There were buggies and 
there were two-seated spring wagons, drawn by 
farm-horses and filled with family parties. They 
drew up before the gate, where the women-folk got 
down, helped out the children, and lifted down 
babies and baskets of provisions, as well as such 
tools as would be required for the day’s work : scythes, 
sickles, spades. Then the wagons drove on into a 
neighbouring field where the horses had their bridles 
removed and their feeding-bags fastened on, and 
were left for the day in charge of George Bullock 
to whom the village tacitly relegated all such simple 
“jobs.” 

The cemetery presented a cheerful appearance. 
All down its centre avenue, spaced by hemlock trees, 
were groups of people, the old women and girls for 
the most part in straw hats, trimmed with bright 
flowers or ribbons, black skirts and coloured waists ; 
the men generally in their ordinary working boots 
156 


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and breeches, with a white collar and tie and better 
coat to mark the holiday. Men and women naturally 
gravitated into separate groups. It was not till 
the afternoon that the young people mixed. 

Mrs. Beebe, in the latest mode, had as usual as- 
sumed command of the female contingent. She 
had collected the most important housewives in a 
knot and was endeavouring to persuade them to 
pool supplies and have a general luncheon party 
under the big hemlock in the ornamental circle at 
the end of the avenue, instead of each small party 
lunching, as was the custom, within its own enclo- 
sure. For once she was unsuccessful. 

“ Don’t see, Mrs. Beebe, as how we can,” Mrs. 
Donner objected. “Men are sot. My man wants to 
eat his vittles plumb on his grandfather’s tomb- 
stone. I don’t say but your way ain’t the most 
select, but he will have it so. An’ I have to bring 
the same vittles that his mother used to bring when 
he was a little shaver — cold sausage and pickles 
and cold apple-pie, and I dare n’t put in a single 
new thing, not even a loaf and seed-cake that the 
children like so much.” 

The other women shared her view. “Don’ seem 
’s if ’t were the right thing eatin’ together ’s if ’t 
were a common picnic,” Mrs. Spiller said mildly. 

Maria sniffed. “I never can get used to your 
Tacitus ways, though it is twenty years now since 
I came here. I can’t see why you can’t eat together 
in the cemetery as well as talk together. But I 
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suppose you have your own little reasons, which 
we people from outside never will understand. Miss 
Meeks, you ’re cornin’ to help me trim the grass in 
our plot, ain’t you?” 

Miss Meeks, who dared not lose the patronage 
of her best customer, meekly followed Maria. 

“The idea of Mrs. Spiller speaking up. I don’t 
call it good taste, her husband being the undertaker 
and all,” Maria declared disdainfully. “Our plot 
ain’t very interesting,” she apologised. “No stones 
yet, nor won’t be till Sam or me steps out. But I 
do like to keep it mowed and I don’t b’lieve there’s 
a stone coping in the graveyard any handsomer 
than ours.” 

“Yes, it does look handsome,” Laura Meeks 
agreed; “and your monument too is rich, I think. 
It looks funny, though, all blank, without any names 
on it.” 

“Time’ll mend that,” Maria declared cheerfully, 
as they arrived before the shaft of grey granite in 
question, which bore in large letters at its foot the 
name of “Beebe.” “Sam ’n’ I had dreadful times 
decidin’ on that stone! I was dead set on a white 
marble column broke off, with ivy growing up it 
and a dove on top. It was just sweet. But Sam got 
his way for once. He said he could n’t see himself 
under that trademark! He \ wanted something 
stanch and noble. So we decided on this and it was 
ten dollars cheaper than the white, too. I like it now 
myself.” 


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“Aren’t you goin’ to plant any flowers?” Miss 
Meeks asked, settling down on her heels to hack 
energetically away at the grass with a sickle, while 
Mrs. Beebe deposited her basket at the foot of the 
monument and stood looking on. 

“Well — no. Flowers are so messy. And between 
you and me I notice that the best people don’t have 
’em. Have you noticed the Erskines’ plot? Not a 
flower, only gravel paths and grass. Of course that ’s 
a big plot, so they can afford to have paths.” 

“Maybe you’re right and it is more chaste!” 
Miss Meeks agreed; “but flowers are cheerful. 
Periwinkle ’s a good coverer, too, if you want cover- 
ing. But you’ve got such good turf. You don’t 
need it.” 

Maria pinned up her skirt and prepared to assist. 

Over all the graveyard rose the hum of pleasant 
human sounds. To a stranger this combining of a 
filial rite with a summer’s outing might have raised 
a smile, but the Tacitus people were too simple to 
see any humour in their custom. It was certainly 
more pleasant and practical to choose a day when 
all might gather, and working together “ready up” 
the cemetery for another year, than for each family 
to come alone and put its own little corner in order. 
Nor was there any disrespect to the dead in their 
familiarity, but rather something approaching the 
old Greek feeling. 

While the men, after much consultation and head- 
scratching, had apportioned the general work of 
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cutting the grass on the overgrown avenue, of trim- 
ming the trees and raking up dead leaves and 
branches, the mothers gathered the children to the 
graves of their families, and while they made all 
neat and trim, related to them, often in a hushed 
voice and with moist eyes, the story of those who 
were gone; stories which they could never forget — 
of the grandfather who had come here from New 
England — of the grandmother who had faced the 
Indians so bravely out on the farm — of the young 
uncle who was killed in the Civil War, and whose 
resting-place was marked by a drooping, faded flag. 
All the family history gained point so rehearsed 
here above the dust of its actors. The children felt 
the happiness of the day touched by something 
which gave it an unearthly charm. 

Many deeds of kindness, too, were done — to 
the absent; and unobtrusive sympathy was offered 
to the recently bereaved, whose garb of black set 
them apart. 

When the luncheons had been eaten with hearty 
appetites and the work was over, in the waning 
afternoon baskets were repacked and the workers 
at last strolled about surveying their neighbours’ 
plots and comparing notes. 

Certain corners of the graveyard drew unfailing 
interest. One was the grave of the unknown stranger. 
Lovers gazed upon the small black cross without a 
name, and drawing closer together felt a gentle 
melancholy steal across the sentiment of the moment 
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as they recalled the story as they had heard it from 
their elders. Hand sought hand as they turned 
away. How sad to be old and alone — how good 
to be young and together. 

The old Vanderveld enclosure, too, had its in- 
terest. The high, wrought-iron fence with the locked 
gate which shut in the old tombstones spoke of a 
world apart from and above any known to the vil- 
lagers. 

As the children peered through the bars, trying 
to decipher, under the tangle of rose, bramble, and 
creeper, the names on the slanting tombstones, 
Cornelius Vanderveld — and there — Sophia — the 
elders had a word of reminiscence. “Sophia, that’s 
old Miss Vanderveld — I remember her when I 
was a child. She lived in what’s now Mis’ Beebe’s 
house — a little lady, but very proud — with white 
hair and black eyes. Land sakes, that was long 
ago ! She was the last of ’em . Guess she ’d rather 
be buried under creepers than be tidied up by 
the likes of us.” And they would move comfort- 
ably on, to pause next before the Erskine plot, 
where a plain, central monument, covered with 
names and dates and surrounded by rows of head- 
stones told the story of those generations of the 
same name, who had lived quietly and died hon- 
oured. There was nothing here eccentric enough 
to draw much comment, but the adjacent lot, where 
pensioners and more distant relatives were laid, 
held matter for endless discussion. 

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“The Erskines’ plot always looks neat,” Maria 
said, tipping her nose over the iron railing. “Noth- 
in’ showy about it, but real nice and genteel.” 

“Looks awful cold, I think,” Miss Meeks in- 
sisted. “ I must say I do like flowers. See how cheer- 
ful the graveyard looks down there where they’ve 
laid out all the plots like little gardens. It does 
make a show, specially those tiger lilies in Mrs. 
Donner’s enclosure. They are somethin’ hand- 
some.” 

Maria moved on. “Here are flowers for you,” 
she said acidly over her shoulder; “wreath of pansies 
on Mr. Dimmock’s grave — cross of lilies on his 
wife’s — fresh, too.” 

Lillian Vincent, standing close by with David 
Donner, turned with her gentle smile to Maria. 

“Jean must have brought them over this morn- 
ing. I saw her walking back with Miss Roxina.” 

Maria sniffed. “The doctor takes great care of 
her. He thinks her too good, I s’pose, to join the 
picnic. Yet who were the Dimmocks, anyway? 
Were they such great folks?” 

Lillian broke in quickly in a troubled voice. “Oh, 
no. That’s not the reason. He’s not a bit stuck-up. 
I think he’s afraid of her hearing something.” 

“ Much better if she did,” Maria declared. “Some 
day she must find out that her father was killed — 
here.” 

“Oh, don’t talk about it,” Miss Meeks cried, with 
an affected little scream. “I am so nervous. I 
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can’t bear to hear horrors or I don’t sleep for a 
week.” 

“ What you talking about?” wheezed Mrs. Don- 
ner. She came up panting from her work, followed 
by her tall, gaunt husband, and to him Maria 
turned with a manner which was meant to be in- 
gratiating. 

“About Mr. Dimmock’s death,” she said. “You 
was the one who found him — were n’t you, Mr. 
Donner?” 

Miss Meeks’s nerves must have taken a sudden 
brace, for she pressed nearer, while Lillian Vincent 
shrank back. 

But Mr. Donner was not to be drawn. He nodded. 
“Yep,” he said. 

“Yes, father found him,” his more garrulous 
spouse continued. “Lying just there on his face, 
his head towards the corner — ’n’ his hat had 
fallen off. ’N’ father found the fresh wagon marks 
at the gate and the ground all stamped up, and 
he followed the marks till they turned off to the 
Attica road, and there they was lost.” 

“What do you think had happened? ” Miss Meeks 
had forgotten her nerves. She knew the story by 
heart, but wanted the thrill of hearing it again on 
the spot. In a country where there is no theatre, 
no opera, and few books, one must get what sen- 
sation one can from life. 

“ Plain ’s day,” Mr. Donner pronounced judicially. 
“These fellers had come an’ were just gittin’ to 
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work when the minister, nigh distracted at her 
death, walks in upon ’em. He goes for ’em, and 
they just lays him out with a spade, and runs away. 
That’s what the coroner found at the inquest.” 

Miss Meeks drew a long breath. “Dear, dear, 
time does fly. Why, Jean is fifteen!” 

“Nearly sixteen,” Lillian amended. 

“She has n’t any looks,” Maria remarked. 

“She ain’t pretty,” Mrs. Donner agreed. “No 
white and pink and chany-blue. But she’s got 
somethin’ about her that makes a person look at 
her, and when you look once, you have to keep 
lookin’. She makes me think of a young saplin’, 
she’s so slim. And she’s tall enough and her hair’s 
like David’s — black as — ” 

“Not quite black,” Lillian interrupted. “It’s 
black with a funny burnt look in the waves, almost 
gold. I have never seen hair like it.” 

Maria raised her chin and walked away, Miss 
Meeks reluctantly following. 

Mrs. Donner chuckled good-naturedly. “Maria 
Beebe’s just made so that praise o’ any mortal 
creature’s pizin to her peace o’ mind.” 

“ Praise of Jean especially,” Lillian'said. “ I don’t 
know why she dislikes her so.” 

“You ’n’ David done sweetheartin’ ? ” Mrs. Don- 
ner asked with a smile. “’Cause father ’n’ I are 
tired ’n’ ready to go when you two are.” 

Lillian blushed all over her fair face. “I am 
ready,” she said with gentle dignity, “but I am 
164 


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walking back. WeVe only been talking of crops, 
Mrs. Donner. David is a great farmer.” With a 
little nod of her head and a smile she had left them, 
before David knew that she was gone. He watched 
her as she crossed the graveyard. 

“Come, David,” his mother said sharply. “She's 
gone, and you 'll lose her for good if you don’t wake 
up. Father 'n' I will wait at the gate till you get the 
horses. Look spry.” 

The Donner family were the last to leave the 
graveyard. Already the peace of evening was en- 
folding it in its shadows, but the points of the hem- 
locks were still gold in the setting sun. 


CHAPTER XX 


Lillian walked quickly back to the village across 
the fields. More than the chill of the air, the pain 
of hurt pride hastened her feet. 

Was that what all the little world of Tacitus was 
thinking? That, in country parlance, she and David 
were sweethearting? And was it true? There came 
the hurt. She did not know. She hoped, but she 
was not sure. Gentle, timid, unambitious, she had 
been irresistibly attracted, since the days of her 
very young girlhood, by the sense of force, of phys- 
ical strength, which lay behind his somewhat stolid 
silence. He represented all the familiar life that she 
knew and with which she felt her future would be 
satisfied. 

All that her mother approved in Rufus Haines, 
on the contrary, alarmed her. He had been pressing 
in his attentions now for three years, and her mother 
wished her to accept him. But his competence and 
his pushing smartness made her uneasy. Where 
might they not lead him? To new places, to higher 
positions of trust certainly — and she shrank from 
the new. The happiest day of her school life had 
been when she returned to Tacitus. Now she only 
asked to remain here, among old friends, old sur- 
roundings, and a round of simple duties. Possibly 
1 66 


SHIFTING SANDS 

the girl had a latent sense of beauty which drew 
her to the quiet spaces of the country, to the patri- 
archal dignity of farm life, rather than to the crowds, 
the meretricious adornments, the cramped houses 
of life in towns. 

Yet she liked Rufus, too. He was a manly young 
fellow, kind and full of spirit. She liked his fun and 
enjoyed being with him. If it had not been for 
David, as her mother said, perhaps she could have 
been quite happy with him. 

To-night she felt overwrought and harried. Her 
mother had, of late, brought a continual small pres- 
sure to bear upon her, urging her own views, now 
logically, now gently and wistfully. 

“What more could we wish for, Lillian ?” she had 
said. “No bad habits, smart, good-looking, and 
with a profession. He can give you a good position. 
And yet you think of throwing yourself away, of 
wasting all the advantages that I ’ve given you, on 
a farmer! David Donner is all right as far as he 
goes, but he is n’t good enough for you.” 

Returning to-night, under the spell of the big 
fellow’s presence, Lillian told herself that her mother 
was wrong; that her small advantages were not 
wasted on him; that if he loved her at all, he loved 
all in her that he had not. She could imagine that 
he might have a deep pride in the little exterior 
graces which distinguished her from the village 
girls, and in the superior education which was their 
source. She told herself that all she had was not 
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much and would certainly not be thrown away, 
provided that he gave her the right to bestow it. 

But, as her mother put it, had she a right to 
refuse a tangible good for an imagined best? To 
refuse a security for uncertainty? Above all, she 
asked herself, had not her mother the right to de- 
mand her obedience now in return for the years of 
self-denial and sacrifice invested in her? With faith 
that the difficult thing is always the right, Lillian 
almost believed that it was her duty to obey her 
mother now, in this. Yet if only David would speak, 
that might give her courage. But even in the 
thought was a fear of that moment when he should. 
If he ever wanted her, he would want her so much — 
big, quiet David. She hung her head, her cheeks 
hot. How could she marry Rufus Haines, feeling 
like that? And yiet, when she thought of him, some- 
times, she felt she could be quite happy. 

Now she was going back to her mother’s gentle, 
reproachful eyes. It was very difficult. If only 
there was some one outside it all to give her advice. 
Her path had joined the road and she was walking 
into the village. She was nearing the parsonage. 
Suppose she were to go in and put the case before 
Miss Savage? Miss Savage had been kind to her, 
had lent her books and music, and had shown an 
interest in her. Miss Savage always seemed strong 
and calm — a woman of judgement. Lillian’s head 
and her heart were in a tumult. She felt she must 
decide once and for ever to-night. 

1 68 


SHIFTING SANDS 

She turned in at the parsonage, and almost be- 
fore she knew it, had entered the white-and -green 
sitting-room, and was face to face with Constance. 

“Why, Lillian, how tired you look!” Constance 
exclaimed. “Where have you come from? Were 
you at the picnic? No wonder you are tired. Sit 
down in that chair by the fire. One minute.” She 
disappeared. 

“I have ordered tea,” she said, as she returned. 
“ It will do you good.” She looked kindly at Lillian, 
who was trying to keep her self-command. “What 
is it?” she asked gently. 

“Oh, Miss Savage,” the girl answered, the tears 
rising in her eyes, “I am so unhappy and I don’t 
know what to do, and I have come to ask your 
advice, but I don’t know how to put it. You have 
been so kind to me that I thought, perhaps, you 
would n’t mind.” 

Constance sat down. She was happy that some 
one needed her, for she had felt a real discourage- 
ment that very afternoon, thinking over her drive 
with Jean of the day before. She reached a silk bag 
from the table and drew out a piece of soft coloured 
knitting before she answered. Then, the needles in 
her hands, and her eyes on the work, she said in a 
quiet voice, “I’m glad that you’ve come, and of 
course I will advise you as well as I can. I wonder 
if I can guess what it is about?” 

“Perhaps,” Lillian said. / 

“About — ” 


169 


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“What I ought to do” — it all came in a rush — 
“ I don’t know. Mother has done a great deal for 
me. You know how much, Miss Savage, and I want 
to repay her if I can. And she wants me very, very 
much to marry some one. I like him, and if there 
was not any one else, I think I could marry him. 
But there is some one else — ” She paused. 

“Well,” Constance said, surprised. “What ques- 
tion can there be, then?” 

“I don’t know, you see, whether he, the other, 
cares a bit for me.” 

Constance rested her knitting on her knee. 1 1 Does 
that change it?” she said. 

“Not for me,” Lillian said quickly. “But have 
I the right to disappoint mother so? To refuse com- 
fort and all that for an uncertainty. You see, it 
is n’t as if there was anything against him, or as if 
I did n’t like him.” 

“What do you want to do?” 

“Just go on as I am. I’d much rather stay poor 
and pinch and scrape with the hope — • ” She stopped. 

“I know.” Constance Savage rested her elbow 
on the table and her head on her hand, and there was 
silence while the maid brought in and arranged the 
tea-tray. “I know,” Constance repeated, pouring 
the tea. “Many women have felt as you feel, Lil- 
lian, and have died, the hope turned to a might- 
have-been, and yet known that it was well done. 
That to have missed the greatest in this life, and 
yet to have kept it in their hearts, was better than 
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SHIFTING SANDS 


to have taken a second-best/ ’ She passed the cup 
of tea, her own face white, but her hands steady. 
“Yet there is the other side. Even a second-best 
marriage must bring much happiness. To feel one’s 
self needed is the supreme joy to a woman. Then — 
children — ” Her voice deepened and softened 
indescribably. “Well, I often think of what a shop- 
girl in my girls’ club in Boston said to me. She was 
a splendid creature, all goodness and generosity, 
but with the contempt for men which a girl in her 
position sometimes has. She said one day to me, 
1 1 won’t marry, but I ’d almost stand the shame to 
have a kid o’ me own without.’ Children mean so 
much to most of us. I dare say your mother thinks 
of all that. No one can decide for you, Lillian.” 

Lillian’s miserable face looked back at her. “I 
know,” she said. “And I owe mother so much.” 

“I don’t agree with you there.” Constance’s 
voice was gentle. “Don’t misunderstand me. Your 
mother has been very fine in her devotion, but 
she has only fulfilled her duty to you. Don’t you 
see? She was responsible for your life, having given 
you birth, and as far as she could, she was bound 
to help you on your way. But that you owe her 
anything for that, I can't agree. She has made you 
love her, because she was kind and good and unself- 
ish. That love is her reward. But no child owes 
any mother more than love. Your decision must 
not be influenced by that.” 

“Oh, Miss Savage!” Lillian’s voice was doubtful. 

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Constance smiled across at her. “ I mean it. The 
twisting of the Ten Commandments is responsible 
for a great deal of needless pain. This little tangle 
of yours among others.” She paused. “Do you 
know what I should do?” She leaned forward. 
“ I would wait for the other.” 

The colour rushed over Lillian’s face as she rose, 
the awkwardness of the village girl in her move- 
ments. “Thank you,” she said uncertainly. 

Perhaps she had half-expected Miss Savage to 
side with her mother to overweigh her own will. 
She had certainly never thought that Miss Savage 
could speak like that. 

Constance understood, and with her quick read- 
justment to another’s point of view felt only sym- 
pathy for Lillian’s bewilderment. 

Lillian moved towards the door which was opened 
at that moment by the maid who announced John 
Erskine. 

“Well?” John Erskine interrogated, smiling, 
when they were alone. “What have you been giving 
this time?” 

Constance shook her head. “What she thinks is 
bad advice. I am not sure that she does n’t think 
me a rather wicked woman — a wolf in sheep’s 
clothing.” She sighed impatiently. “ It seems to me 
that if you step out of the beaten track you are 
suspect. And yet it seems a duty not to continue 
to repeat the old platitudes, to preach the old non- 
sense. Who, Dr. Erskine, who thinks at all, can be- 


SHIFTING SANDS 


lieve that the child owes any return to the parents 
for the gift of life and such food and clothes and 
education as they can afford? In giving these 
things the parents fulfil their solemn duty. The 
child’s duty ends with love. There is no further 
obligation from child to parent. Indeed, there ’s not. 
And it is the selfish expediency of the parents who 
have taught it, and the church, bought by the 
parents’ money, which has inculcated it. Now the 
whole thing is twisted about.” 

“ But suppose the child is economically dependent 
on the parent?” 

“That’s the parent’s fault, and the child should 
not suffer for it. Every child should be taught to 
be self-supporting and so to win his own soul. And 
do you know” — she bent towards him eagerly — 
“Mr. Owen Owens said something to me last week 
which I have often thought myself. He came to 
bring me some roots for autumn planting. And he 
said that happiness lies in the possession of three 
things — a religion, a craft, and a hobby.” 

John smiled. “He has his happiness safe enough, 
then. Though it is difficult to tell in his case, which 
are the craft, and which are the hobbies!” 

“Of course, that’s the way it ought to be! It 
would be so in a community where every man took 
pride and pleasure, like Mr. Owen Owens, in his 
craft. Oh, I am sure that it will all work out beau- 
tifully to that some day. But, meanwhile, we have 
the spectacle of weak little girls sacrificing their 
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chances of happiness and of happy children to their 
parents through a mistaken idea of gratitude for 
food and clothes — or, it may be, for French frocks 
and trips abroad. It is curious. The girls and boys 
are so self-sacrificing and the parents think how well 
they ’ve brought them up ! ” 

“ I shall never be troubled in that way by Jean,” 
John said drily. “She has her own ideas on every 
subject and, what’s more, acts on them.” 

“Yes,” Constance said slowly. “Do you know 
that I feel that I have taught her all that I can? In 
justice to her, she should have another teacher.” 

John protested. “There is no one in Attica who 
is as strong as you are, Miss Savage.” 

“ I was not thinking of Attica. But of Boston — 
Paris — Munich — ” 

John did not answer. A swift dismay kept him 
silent. 

“I think that with study under good masters, 
she might become an exceptional musician. She 
began late and requires tremendous drill to acquire 
a better technique. But she has the ear and the 
temperament of the artist. She ought to go away.” 

John Erskine rose. He was conscious of an effort 
to appear unconcerned. “ I dare say you Ye right,” 
he said. 


CHAPTER XXI 


“ I have n’t heard you play for a long time.” John 
Erskine spoke abruptly, looking up from his desk 
where he bent above the growing manuscript of 
his new book. 

Jean smiled from the corner of the settle where she 
was reading. She had on a new, soft, cream-coloured 
dress, cut out a little in the neck, that had just come 
from Boston, and which matched the warm white 
of her cheek. 

“ I thought you were deep in it,” she said, nodding 
to his desk, “or I would have spoken. See.” She 
held up her German grammar. “It isn’t easy to 
play for you, is it? You are out all day and when 
you come in you are always here, and the piano is 
upstairs.” 

John Erskine did not answer. A sudden realisa- 
tion of her beauty had come to him with a shock. 

She grew slowly crimson under his scrutiny. “Is 
it” — she paused — “my new dress? Don’t you 
like it? Mrs. Gray sent it. It’s more grown-up 
than any others I have had.” 

“Ah, that’s it,” he said. “I was forgetting my 
manners. Of course, it ’s the dress. But about your 
playing. I should like to hear you sometimes. Why 
should n’t we have the piano down here? Or, better 
175 


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still, Jean, I will give you another. How about a 
grand, a small grand?” 

The book slipped from her lap. “Oh, J.E., not 
really? And I have been so longing for one! Oh! 
J.E., how splendid!” Her face was vivid. “How 
can I ever thank you?” 

John Erskine rose and walked to the other side 
of the room. 

“It's nothing,” he said curtly, turning back. 
“ It pleases me. But you should tell me when you 
want anything. Tell me frankly. It is most annoy- 
ing for me to feel that you don’t.” 

“But I do,” she protested. “But a grand piano 
is such a big thing and the old one is quite good.” 

“We must ask Cousin Roxina down here in the 
evenings.” 

“Oh, must we? She ’s really quite happy upstairs, 
dozing and playing patience. We bore her to death, 
you know we do.” 

“Perhaps.” He sat down at the desk. “Well, 
bring me your work. Let ’s see what geometry and 
German will do.” 

“Do?” she asked, bringing the books, but he 
did not answer. “ I hope,” she went on, as she laid 
them on the table, “that you won’t be called out 
to-night. You’ve had to go so often this winter. 
You are too good. I think the people impose on 
you.” 

“Nonsense.” 

Surprised at his tone, she came and stood behind 
176 


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him, while he went through her papers, correcting 
and explaining. 

“You have done this translation very well. ,, 
He tapped the German paper with his pencil. “Six 
months in Paris and six in Germany would make 
you fluent in conversation, too. It is not an impos- 
sibility. I can’t expect to keep you buried here, 
can I?” He asked the question sharply. 

“Oh, but I like staying,” she answered. 

“Humph!” 

“I do,” she repeated. “You are not very polite, 
J.E.” 

“Ah, yes, but you don’t know the world. You 
will want to see it, to explore — to go to Boston — 
to New York — London — Paris — Berlin? And 
Italy? Does n’t that fire you?” 

Something in his tone puzzled her. But she an- 
swered simply. “Yes. It is wonderful, but I know 
it as well as if I had seen it, somehow. And I don’t 
want to go — yet.” 

He laughed. “ Not quite yet. Next year, perhaps. 
How can you know it all, child?” 

“I don’t know, but I do. It is not seeing things 
that interests me. It is doing things, feeling things. 
I want to feel everything, yes, everything that can 
be felt ! Places are for later when I shall need to be 
amused, when I am old, twenty-five or thirty.” 

“Twenty-five or thirty! ” his voice was mocking. 
He laughed shortly. 

Hurt at his tone, she turned away. She hated to 
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be so young, so silly — only a child, a baby, to him. 
It was maddening. 

John Erskine had forgotten her. Sitting with her 
books before him, he had gone back to the day of 
his meeting with Robert and Mary Dimmock. He 
had felt no premonition of the future as he clasped 
their hands. Eight years ago. He had come back 
to do his duty in the place where he was born. How 
had he done it? 

“Shall I go?” Jean’s voice recalled him. 

He answered with an effort. “Is it time? What 
was it we were talking about? Oh, yes. Well, 
months ago and again yesterday Miss Savage spoke 
to me about your music. She tells me that she can’t 
do any more for you. That she thinks you should 
have better masters.” 

Jean shook her head. “It isn’t so,” she said 
gravely. “ I love music, but I don’t care to play as 
most people do. I don’t want to learn things to 
play. I want to make my own music. Or — or — 
play what I hear.” 

“That’s just it! You ought to hear good music — 
concert — opera — •” He turned his chair to face 
her. 

Again she shook her head a trifle impatiently. 
“Not that, — I don’t mean that. That’s like the 
places, for when I am old — older, I mean - — But 
now, for a long time, I want just to make my own 
music. I hear it — oh, everywhere — ” She spoke 
diffidently. “ It is like the belief I used to have about 
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SHIFTING SANDS 


things feeling. The whole world seems alive, full 
of voices in rhythm.” She looked at him tentatively. 
“ You don’t think it silly?” 

“Not in the least.” 

She waved a slim, comprehensive hand. “It is 
all living,” she said. “ I am terribly afraid of losing 
the feeling. I might if I went to cities, might n’t I ? ” 

“I don’t know. Originality is a great thing, but 
you won’t be able to make your music, as you say, 
without studying. No, I agree with Miss Savage.” 

“Oh, Miss Savage!” she interpolated pettishly. 

“She says that you ought to study seriously, 
have greater advantages — go away.” 

“ Go away ! What right has she to talk about me?” 
Her voice was quivering, her eyes blazing. 

“My dear — Miss Savage — ” 

“Miss Savage! Miss Savage! It’s always Miss 
Savage! I wish I had never seen her. What right 
has she to talk about me behind my back?” She 
sprang to her feet, turning a tense, white face on 
John. “I hate Miss Savage — I hate her.” With 
a sob she turned and fled from the room. 

John Erskine, annoyed and disturbed, rose and 
paced the room. What had happened? What had 
moved her? Was she tired? Overstrained? Had 
he been working her too hard? That must be it. 
She had lost control of herself completely. He sat 
down again and lit his pipe before he took up his 
pen. He could not bear to think of her outburst. 
He would not. He put the scene out of his mind. 

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Jean reached her room, calm with excitement, 
but in a moment this gave way and she found her- 
self trembling. Shaking, she threw herself on her bed 
and burst into wild tears. She was utterly ashamed, 
bowed down, and humiliated. With clenched 
hands she lay sobbing in the dark. What had made 
her behave so outrageously? She had not known 
that she could till that moment’s fury had swept 
her away. It was unforgivable. What must he 
think of her? She could not bear the idea of facing 
him again. What madness in her blood had surged up, 
betraying to him what she had not acknowledged 
to herself to exist. What that was, she would not 
even think. But suppose he told Constance Sav- 
age! They were great friends. The thought made 
her bite her handkerchief in an agony. She could 
not bear that. She could never face them again if 
he did. She sat up on the edge of her bed. She was 
not sorry for a word she had said now. She said 
them over in the dark — “ I hate her — I hate her 
— I hate her,” and calmed herself so doing. She 
told herself she could not help the fact. She did 
hate Constance Savage, but the dreadful thing was 
that he should know that she did, and worse, that 
he should tell. 

The unbearable shame of this thought brought 
her to her feet. She opened the door and ran down 
the stairs to the study again, opened the door and 
went in. 

John Erskine sat working at the desk, and Jean, 
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SHIFTING SANDS 


absorbed in her trouble, was unconscious of her 
wild, tear-stained face in its tumbled masses of 
black hair. 

“I came back,” she said defiantly, standing still 
before him. “I am not sorry a bit for what I said. 
I can’t help it. As long as I ’ve said it, I won’t back 
out. I don’t like her. But” — she paused, swallow- 
ing her pride — “you won’t tell her, will you?” 

“Tell her!” John repeated sharply. “My dear 
child, what do you take me for?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she cried. “I am sorry. 
Good-night, and forgive me, please.” 

For the second time she was gone, leaving John 
this time so disturbed that work was impossible for 
the rest of that night. 


CHAPTER XXII 


The morning brought reflection and repentance to 
Jean. While she dressed, she recalled all Constance’s 
kindness to her, all that she owed to Constance. 
She told herself that it was her own fault if she did 
not like Constance, for Constance was at all points 
her own superior. Going to the other extreme she 
rehearsed Miss Savage’s perfections. “She is tall 
and stately,” she admonished herself in the glass, 
“while you are only five feet five, and that’s not 
tall enough, if it is the height of the Greek slave 
that Cousin Roxina is always talking about. What 
Greek slave? I must ask J.E. And she has white 
hands, not paws, and brown eyes, not green, — and 
soft brown hair, — and she ’s good and gentle and 
gracious — and superior — and, after all, I don’t 
like her as much as I thought I did ! ” At which she 
had the good sense to laugh and so brace herself to 
go down to breakfast, where she talked a great deal 
to hide from John Erskine that she was conscious 
of last night’s betrayal. And when he had left, feel- 
ing a need of expiation, she volunteered to walk to 
old Miss Lovejoy’s to fetch some honey for Cousin 
Roxina, although she particularly disliked going 
there. 

It was the end of March. The frost coming out 
of the ground had left roads and gardens deep in 
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mud. Snow still lingered in dingy patches in fence 
corners, but the tree-tops looked red against the 
sky, and surest sign of spring, all down Upper Street 
buckets were hung on taps driven into the maple 
trees to catch the trickle of crystal maple sap that 
had begun to run. 

Owen Owens tapped these trees, and Jean as she 
went on her way found him peering into a bucket. 
She stopped. ) 

“Oh, Mr. Owens. You won’t forget to tell me be- 
fore you make the maple sugar, will you?” 

The preacher lifted his head and saluted her, with 
an indefinite wave of his hand. “Jean — never have 
since you were a little maid. It won’t be much this 
year. Sap don’t seem to be rising much.” 

“Oh, but it’s got to,” Jean declared airily. 
“Sooner or later.” 

He shook his head, with a quaint decisiveness. 
“There’s no rule,” he said, rolling his r’s, “for tr-rees 
and such. Don’t you know that, little maid who 
knows so much? No rules for tr-rees and such. 
They ar-re no more alike than you and me! There 
ar-re some good and some bad and some ugly — and 
some handsome — and they know it.” 

“Oh, yes,” Jean agreed with enthusiasm; “Of 
course they do.” They turned and walked on to- 
gether. They were great friends. 

Owen Owens delighted in giving rein to his sim- 
ple whimsical fancies with the girl who always un- 
derstood. Now his thin-lipped wide mouth twitched 
183 


SHIFTING SANDS 


as he went on in his rich voice. “Do you know the 
proudest tree in all the country? It is that tall 
mountain-ash tree in the fall, on the top of Mount 
Eliza yonder. Have you ever noticed her, Jean? 
Near daft with pr-ride — pr-ride that deceive th. 
Where are you going ?” 

“For honey.” 

“Aye,” the preacher continued, “who shall say 
that these tr-rees and flowers of the field and the 
whole gr-reat creation is not a living creature same 
as you and me? What is to hinder? Who shall gain- 
say?” 

“No one,” Jean agreed, her eyes bright. He 
paused to peer into another bucket, talking over his 
shoulder. 

“A gr-reat student once told to me — ’t was be- 
fore your father came here, years ago. He was a 
young fellow just from college with a deal of knowl- 
edge out of books, and we had many a talk together 
over this and that. ‘Ah,’ said he to me one day, 
* you’ve got great men on your side, Owens.’ ” The 
preacher straightened himself and faced Jean. 
“ ’T was Vir-rgil who said, ‘First the sky and the 
earth and the watery plains and the moon’s bright 
sphere and Titan’s star, a speerit heeds within — and 
a wind instilled through the limbs gives energy to 
the whole mass and mingles with the mighty body. 
Thence springs the race of men and beasts and the 
lines of winged fowl and the monsters Ocean bears 
beneath his marble floor.’ ” He declaimed the words 
184 


SHIFTING SANDS 

with a grand roll which gave them colour and conse- 
quence. 

“Oh, I like it,” Jean cried. “How did you re- 
member it?” 

“He wr-rote it down and then I learned it. And 
he said,” the preacher continued weightily, “that a 
German writer — Goethe — I have read him since 
in the translations — had written of the spirit in the 
earth. Though it is not surprising to me that others 
have thought the same as me.” 

“Mr. Owens, is that you?” ’T was Maria 
Beebe’s sharp voice from her garden. 

Owens made a wry face and Jean laughed. “I’d 
rather be a tree than some people,” she whispered, 
and, with a nod, swung across the square on her 
errand. 

“Who was that you were talking to?” Maria 
asked, meeting him at the gate. 

“Miss Jean Dimmock,” Owens answered pre- 
cisely. 

“ ‘We talked with open heart an’ tongue, ^ 
Affectionate and true. 

A pair of friends, though she was young 
And I was — fifty-two — ’ 

as the poet saith.” 

“Oh, Jean Dimmock.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated with a twinkle, “ Miss 
Jean Dimmock.” 

Mrs. Beebe turned sharply and walked into the 
house. 


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SHIFTING SANDS 


Jean went smiling on her way. Owen Owens’s 
words had set fire to her inflammable fancy. She 
thought of the '‘Ocean’s marble floor” and of the 
proud tree up on Mount Eliza, then of the eerie 
little birch wood on the edge of the sand-dunes. 
She would ride out there soon and she would go 
again on a summer night and watch and listen 
and — 

“Well, Jean, dear. You nearly ran into me! 
Where are you going to on a March morning with 
your eyes full of dreams?” 

“Oh, Miss Savage!” She looked at Constance 
with frank, smiling face, and Constance recognised 
this as the Jean John Erskine knew. Was she, too, 
to know her after so long? Or would the usual curi- 
ous veil of antipathy, of indifferent hostility, fall 
again between them? 

But when Jean made amends to herself they were 
thorough. And for the few moments that she stood 
talking to Constance, she was as charming as she 
could be. As they were parting, Constance turned 
back to her. 

“My nephew is coming for Easter. I hope that 
you will help me entertain him. He is a nice boy — 
at Harvard.” 

Jean suddenly coloured vividly. “Thank you,” 
she said formally. “I am afraid that there is not 
much that I can do.” 

“Only look as lovely as you do this morning,” 
Constance answered mentally. “She is lovely,” 
1 86 


SHIFTING SANDS 


she thought, as she went on across the square. At 
the big, round, green watering- trough she stopped 
and drew out the bread which she brought every 
day for the trout that lived here. She leaned against 
the edge, throwing crumbs of it into the water and 
watching the fish as they darted from side to side, 
eagerly sucking in the bits. 

“So you play Providence to the fish as well as 
to the birds of the air, Tacitus, and all the inhabit- 
ants thereof.” 

Constance turned smiling to John. “How happy 
every one seems to be this morning. I have just 
met Jean, as gay as a lark. And, oh, Dr. Erskine, 
she is lovely! I am expecting a boy, a nephew of 
mine, for Easter, and I foresee that she will make 
short work of his heart. Don’t you think that she 
is quite lovely?” 

“At times,” John answered grudgingly, “quite. 
But she is very changeable.” 

“That’s part of the charm,” Constance insisted. 
“If Marian brings her out, she ought to make a 
sensation. Marian’s girls are nice and well-bred, 
but not beauties.” 

“ I have n’t seen them for years. Marian contin- 
ues to invite us there. But I am too busy. She 
forgets that she might come here to us. There is 
plenty of room in the house.” 

“Yes, but a woman like Marian — clever and 
worldly — has every moment planned for. Between 
her interest in Society and Art and Science and 
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Literature — all with capitals — she really has no 
time to enjoy anything! But she is a dear, in spite 
of it, and devoted to you, as you know.” 

“ Yes, we were always fond of one another. Your 
gluttons seem satisfied and your rations are ex- 
hausted. You ’re going home? I ’m going across the 
bridge.” 

“ You ’ll meet Jean. She ’s just gone that way.” 

She turned, walking with her long, clean step 
and went on to the parsonage. Had she looked she 
would have seen that Dr. Erskine did not go down 
the street that led over the bridge. He changed his 
mind. 

Constance entered the house, thoughtful. She 
was glad to have heard his voice and to have seen 
his face. But she knew that she had made a mis- 
take when she had included him among the happy. 
John Erskine, she felt, was not a happy man. And 
yet he had not an unhappy nature, she was sure of 
that. Whatever his trouble, it came from some 
cause which he could not remedy, which he was 
bound to accept, which he could not change. What 
could it be? As more than once before, her mind 
involuntarily flew to that Mary Dimmock who had 
lived before her in the parsonage, whose personality 
she sometimes felt still lingered there, the woman 
of whose quiet beauty and whose gentle charm she 
had heard, the woman of whom John Erskine had 
never spoken, yet for whose life he had fought — 
the woman whose child he had taken into his 
1 88 


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house. Could that woman have taken John’s hap- 
piness with her to the grave? and left him with a 
weight of sorrow and — could it be remorse, which 
had made a stern, taciturn man of him at thirty- 
five? 

As she entered her sitting-room she realised the 
whole significance of her thoughts and faced them. 
It could not be. She wronged him and the woman 
she had never seen, the woman who was dead. 
Knowing John Erskine, she knew there could have 
been no wrong. But might he not have loved her? 
She stood looking around the room which had been 
Mary’s, which she had made here. She wished that 
it could speak. 

The door opened and her father came in. He 
appeared rather more robust after the winter of 
care and feeding up. His mild blue eyes looked en- 
quiringly over his thin nose as usual. He held a 
book in his hand. 

“I thought I heard you come in, my dear. And 
I have brought down this book to show you a most 
extraordinary mistake.” 

“What is the book, father?” 

“It is Henderson’s Vita /Eschyli , the 1820 edi- 
tion — rare. I have read it several times myself 
without noticing this error.” 

She stood at his shoulder, full of sympathy as she 
felt him tremble, thrilled by the interest of his dis- 
covery. His forefinger pointed fo the vital point 
in the text. 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“You see? A wrong date. Henderson says that 
iFschylus paid a visit to Sicily with Pindar and 
Simonides and was entertained by Herion, the 
Tyrant of Syracuse, in 477. But Herion did not 
come to the throne until 476!” He closed the book 
on his fingers, peering at her triumphantly. “An 
extraordinary inaccuracy, is it not?” 

“Extraordinary,” Constance echoed gravely. 
“You will be able to talk to Rex about the Greek 
dramatists, father. He is coming for Easter, you 
know.” 

Mr. Savage waved a deprecating hand. “I fear 
that my grandson is not much of a scholar, my dear. 
You, I find, while no classical scholar, are always 
intelligently interested. It seems a pity to me at 
times that your mother did not allow you to study 
Greek. But she had her own ideas on the subject” 
— he was approaching the door — “and I dare 
say ” — the door was open — “very — ” The door 
closed on the sentence and Constance was left alone. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


“ Don’ know’s I ever have known such goings on.” 
Maria Beebe was under way for a good afternoon’s 
gossip. She and Miss Meeks, who had come in to 
do some sewing, were seated together in the bay- 
window of the Beebe’s sitting-room. Miss Meeks, 
as was proper for one who worked for two shillings 
per day, was bolt upright in a straight cane chair, 
but Maria was rocking comfortably as she talked. 
Her frizzled hair was greyer, her sharp eyes a 
trifle harder with every year. Now the colour of 
battle had risen to her high cheek-bones. Her 
knotty fingers were busy with Attica’s latest fashion 
in crocheted mats, whose greatest point was, of 
course, a fancied resemblance to a blue water-lily. 
To prefer that a mat should not look like a mat — 
to find a decided leaning toward anything that 
“looks like something that it is not” — was a 
peculiarity of taste not confined to Attica. 

Had Maria Beebe but known it, her own chief 
fault lay in that very thing. She might have passed 
for a fair sample of what she was. But she was a 
failure at what she was not. 

She proved it now by her eagerness to pull down 
those whom she would not for an instant have 
acknowledged as set above her. 

“Don’ know’s I ever have known such goings 
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on,” she repeated. “ ’T is n’t as if Jean Dimmock 
was a child. But she’s sixteen an’ a half, which is 
really grown. And ’t is n’t as if she were a plain 
girl, for she has a kind of good looks which I can’t 
see much in, but I s’pose a man can. A man, s’ far’s 
I can see, don’t need much but a petticoat an’ a 
wig to turn his head.” 

“An’ she has got an elegant head of hair,” Miss 
Meeks agreed. 

“If you like that kind. What s’prises me is that 
Miss Savage should not seem to mind, though it is 
her own nephew. ’Course you can’t expect Dr. 
Erskine to keep track of a harum-scarum girl, he 
off on his rounds as he is, nor old Miss Roxina either. 
I said a word to Martha the other day. You should 
have seen the way she glared at me.” 

Miss Meeks bit off her cotton. “What did she 
say?” 

Maria bent over her work. She had no intention 
of repeating Martha’s words. “Oh, you know the 
way she always talks. Dr. Erskine might be the 
King of England an’ Jean a royal Princess. Loony 
old woman.” 

“Say, have you ever et any of her parken?” 
Miss Meeks was animated. “It’s the finest ginger- 
bread I ever tasted. I had some one day when I 
was there sewing.” 

“ Where ’d you have tea — in the kitchen?” 
Maria demanded sharply. 

Miss Meeks was superior for once. “Certainly 
192 


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not. On a tray in the sewing-room. They always 
know how to treat you in a really good house, I find. 
When I used to sew for the judge's wife in Attica, 
I had things real comfortable, meals an' all laid 
regular on the sewing-room table an' an hour at 
midday for a walk." 

“ Humph!" Maria sniffed, 

“An’ when I left," continued Miss Meeks, not 
to be cheated of a little sweet revenge, “she made me 
a present of a real good dress — much better ’n 
that one you’re going to turn an’ make over." 

Before Maria could think of a sufficiently crush- 
ing reply, the clatter of galloping hoofs, coming 
nearer down the street, brought her to her feet. 

“For mercy’s sake, the third time!" she ex- 
claimed. She craned over Miss Meeks’s shoulder 
and they both stared out above the geraniums in 
the window. 

“It’s them again! An’ she’s ahead this time," 
Miss Meeks cried. “She does look nice on horse- 
back. An’ he’s a handsome young feller!" She 
could not repress a sigh as the two figures, the girl 
and the man, swept by out of sight. 

“Well, I’m glad you think that’s lookin’ nice — 
I don’t," Maria exclaimed sternly. “An’ what 
about the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty 
to Animals?" 

“Oh, I don’t think that," Miss Meeks said primly. 
Since she had been to sew for Miss Roxina she had 
shown signs of insubordination to the Beebe rule. 

193 


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“Dr. Erskine has trained Jean Dimmock. I guess 
there ain’t much you can tell her about horses.” 

Maria knew when to be subdued. “I wonder 
where they’re goin’,” she said. 

Jean and Rex Challoner were going where the 
wild mood took them. Jean, secure in the admiring 
friendliness of all the village, and Rex content to 
follow her. It was the last afternon of a glorious 
holiday and they were making the most of it. They 
swept round the green trough in the middle of the 
square, down the street, and clattered over the 
bridge, where Jean, with a turn of her wrist, brought 
her horse around to the left, Rex close beside her. 
The horses dropped into a trot. 

“I say, this is fun!” the young fellow declared. 

“ Is n’t it?” Jean cried. 

As the horses slowed to a walk, she dropped the 
bridle and raised her arms to tighten the black rib- 
bon which held the mass of hair under the little 
soft black hat. 

“It’s lucky my hair is n’t put up yet. It will be 
a nuisance when it is.” 

“Rather a shame, too, for other reasons,” Rex 
laughed, looking at the loop of heavy braid on her 
shoulders. 

“Don’t be silly,” she admonished severely. “Do 
you see the gate ahead? We will tie the holies there. 
That’s Mount Eliza.” 

“And we climb her and sit down and talk?” 

“A few minutes,” Jean granted. “But we must 
194 


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not stay long. I have a lot of things to do at home 
before I dress to go to your aunt’s to supper.” 

“May I walk home with you after supper?” 

Jean turned to him quickly, blushing at the tone. 
“Oh, I don’t think so. J.E. is sure to send some one 
or come for me himself,” she said simply. 

“I don’t wonder. I should myself, if I were he.” 

Jean touched her horse, flew ahead to the gate, 
and before Rex reached her, had swung herself to 
the ground. 

“You might have waited for me to help you, 
you know!” he said, as he flung himself off his horse 
and took her bridle from her. “Come, you must not 
be so obstinate. You can’t have your own way 
always!” 

“But why not?” she demurred. “I am used to 
doing everything alone. I never have any one to 
ride with, and I go everywhere.” 

“You oughtn’t, you know.” The boy looked 
concerned. “I don’t think it’s safe. I don’t think 
that guardian of yours is half careful enough, really.” 

Jean laughed gaily, leading the way up the steep 
hill. It was amusing. 

“No, but really, you know. You’re awfully 
young.” 

She turned a vivid mocking face to him. 

“ I have done it for ages.” 

“Well, I don’t mean only young” — his eyes were 
full of her beauty — “but you’re too — oh, dash 
it! — too pretty, you know.” 

195 


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“Am I?” She stared at him, surprised. “How 
funny! Am I?” 

Her question was so genuinely full of naive en- 
quiry that he answered quite sincerely. 

“Of course. Do you mean to say you don’t know 
it?” 

The colour came and went in her face. “I sup- 
pose it sounds silly,” she said, as they reached the 
top, “but I was n’t sure.” 

“Well, you may be,” he said concisely, “sure.” 

They sat down at the top of the cone-shaped hill, 
unmindful of the view spread out before them, the 
village and the creek marking the winding valley. 
Jean had forgotten the proud ash tree which waved 
its fresh young green above her head in vain appeal. 
To know that you were pretty was more wonderful 
than these — than view or trees. 

She sat with her arms about her knees, holding 
her whip, while Rex, who had thrown his long 
length at her side, studied her profile, the curve of 
her cheek, and the mass of dusky hair. 

He was good to look at himself, young and strong, 
and well turned out. 

“Don’t stare,” she said finally. 

“Can’t help it.” 

“Then your education has been deficient. I was 
taught that in my very early youth.” 

“So was I, but there are exceptions to every rule.” 

“How many times have you said that?” Her 
chin went up a trifle. 


196 


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“Never before, I swear.” He raised himself 
eagerly on his elbow. 

She turned quickly and gave him one long glance 
of her great black-lashed eyes. In that moment 
she made a further discovery of unimagined power 
which made it difficult to withdraw her eyes from 
those others that held them or to still the beating 
of her heart. 

Frightened, she sprang to her feet. “Oh, we must 
go. I shall be late.” 

“So soon?” He rose reluctantly. “You are un- 
kind — Jean.” 

She threw back her head and laughed. The sense 
of power was pleasant. For the first time in her life 
she did not run down the slope of Mount Eliza. 

“I shan’t see you alone again, I suppose.” Rex’s 
voice was discontented. “You need n’t be in such a 
hurry.” 

“We have n’t any such fearful secrets to discuss, 
have we?” she asked, a trifle scornfully. 

“No secrets, but I have lots of things to say” — 
he paused — “and you might have waited to hear 
them. It won’t do any good not to listen, for I shall 
come back in the summer and say them. May I?” 
He was close to her as they reached the gate. His 
hand closed over hers as she fumbled with her 
horse’s bridle. 

But she would not have that. 

“Don’t,” she said angrily. “I shall hate you if 
you do.” 


i97 


SHIFTING SANDS 


He released her hand at once. 

“Oh, no, you won’t, Jean.” 

They both mounted and rode off in silence. When 
they entered the stone gates of the old house, Rex 
spoke with an effort. 

“ Forgive me if I have offended you. I am sorry.” 

Jean turned a sweet face to him. 

“Oh, let’s be friends again,” she said, “because 
you’re going to-morrow.” 

“And you ’ll be sorry a little? ” He leaned nearer. 

“Yes.” 

“Then let this be good-bye till I come again. We 
can’t half say it at the house to-night.” 

“Good-bye,” Jean said, very low. “Now, will you 
go, please. I am going round to the stable.” 

He turned his horse and rode away down the 


avenue. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Since Jean’s outburst there had been no more 
evenings in the study. The next night the doctor 
had appeared in Cousin Roxina’s sitting-room. He 
came, he said, because he wished to hear Jean play. 
For several following nights some apparently nat- 
ural excuse had risen for his absence from the study, 
till the custom had lapsed. 

Jean did not know whether he was going on with 
his book alone or not. She felt that something was 
wrong, but she did not know what. She was afraid 
that it was her own behaviour on that night, yet 
he had seemed to forgive her. At Miss Savage’s re- 
quest lessons had been stopped during the holidays 
while Rex was there, and every day had been full 
of fun, of rides and walks and tea-parties at the 
parsonage, so Jean had not missed the old pleasant 
hours. 

But now that Rex was gone, time dragged. John 
had said nothing about resuming their work together, 
and the girl felt hurt and unhappy. 

She was glad of the diversion caused by the arrival 
of three large boxes from Boston which came by 
the afternoon post, and which were carried up to 
Cousin Roxina’s sitting-room. 

“Surely, Cousin Roxina,” she exclaimed, from 
amidst a cloud of tissue paper, “Mrs. Gray has sent 
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me too many things this summer. What shall I 
ever do with three great boxes full of clothes? Oh, 
Cousin Roxina, is n’t this lovely?” She rose, flushed 
and smiling, shaking the papers from the folds of a 
soft white dress. 

“ See, the waistband — French — Oh ! it is pretty ! 
I can hardly wait to try it on. I have happened on 
the nicest box first, I think. But, Cousin Roxina, 
really, it is too many, is n’t it?” 

“I don’t know, Jean. It seems to me Cousin 
Marian must know. I b’lieve Cousin John wrote to 
her to send you just the very same outfit this sum- 
mer that she got for her own youngest girl. And 
you may depend she did as he said. People always 
do as John says. What’s coming next?” 

“Pink. Pale pink. It’s tied across with tapes to 
hold it. See ! ” She held it up. “Oh, it ’s really quite 
low in the neck and with sleeves above the elbow. 
I ’ll never have a chance to wear that. But is n’t 
it too pretty almost to wear ! It ’s much the prettiest 
dress she has ever sent.” She threw the dress across 
the chair. “It will be fun trying them on! And, 
oh, Cousin Roxina, here ’s a white silk case — Pearls, 
Cousin Roxina, and a note.” 

She read it aloud: “This little string of pearls is 
to mark your almost-growing-up, dear Jean, and 
I send them with the hope that I may before long 
see you with them around your neck. We have just 
been hearing about you from my son’s friend, Rex 
Challoner. This summer we are determined not 


200 


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to take a refusal. We all want a visit from you, 
with or without your stern guardian. Don’t dis- 
appoint us. The girls join me in love to you. Hope 
you will like the frocks. Hats are harder to choose, 
but I think I have done fairly well.” 

Jean looked up. “I don’t want to go,” she said 
quickly; then, turning impulsively, she knelt down 
by the old lady’s chair. “Oh, Cousin Roxina, dear, 
don’t let me go!” 

Miss Adams laid her hands on the girl’s head 
kindly. “You needn’t be afraid, Jean,” she said 
reassuringly. * 1 They ’re not at all grand, though they 
do live in a house with thirty bedrooms, a bath- 
room to every two. They’re very kind!” 

“Kind!” Jean started up. “Good gracious!” 
She turned back to the boxes, her chin in the air. 

While she unpacked the rest of the dainty outfit, 
Cousin Roxina went on eulogising upon her favour- 
ite topic: — • 

“And to think, Jean, that Mrs. Gray knows that 
young man who was here at Easter. The world is 
small, my dear. He seemed a nice young man, 
though rather free in his manners. That’s the 
fashion now, I suppose. I wonder why the doctor 
did not like him.” 

“Did n’t he?” Jean was busy trying on a wide 
straw hat trimmed with a wreath of blush roses. 

“Not over-much, between you and me. Though 
I could not make out what he had against him.” 

“Do you like this hat, Cousin Roxina?” 

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The door opened as she spoke, and she turned 
a startled face to John Erskine. 

“Don’t let me disturb you!” His voice was 
slightly sarcastic, and he turned his eyes away from 
the charming picture. 

She took off the hat and returned it quietly to the 
box without speaking. 

“I have come up to ask you, Jean, if you are 
ready for your lessons, or if you are going to play 
for the rest of the spring and summer?” 

She faced him with unusual dignity. “You know 
you said, when I stopped at Easter, that you would 
tell me when to begin again, J.E., and what you 
wanted me to do. You have n’t said anything, so I 
supposed that you were not ready. I have been 
going on by myself, though, as well as I could. 
Shall I bring my books to the study and show you 
now?” 

“What?” he said ungraciously, “and leave all 
this?” 

“You ordered it, J.E.,” she said. 

He turned to the door abruptly. “Yes, bring the 
books, then. And hurry, please, I have only half 
an hour.” 

But the half-hour lengthened into an hour and 
a half. Neither of them could bear the tension which 
had crept into their relationship, and both did their 
best to bring it back to the old footing. 

“There!” John said, pushing the last book away. 
“Iam late. Go back to your furbelows. They can’t 
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do you much harm while you have as good a grip 
as that upon Euclid!” 

“Harm!” She paused. “I think, J.E., there are 
too many and that they are too nice.” 

“Too nice!” He spoke sharply. “It’s time you 
had nicer, then. That’s an absurd idea. If they are 
not too nice for my nieces, they are not too nice for 
you.” 

“Thank you,” she said timidly. 

He turned on her almost fiercely. “Will you 
never learn that there are no thanks from you to 
me? What I do I do from no goodness, but from a 
sense of what I owe you — my duty — nothing more 
or less. Try to remember!” 

“I shall not forget.” Her slight figure was 
tense. “Is that all, J.E.?” 

The passion in his face died out. “Forgive me, 
Jean,” he said. “I’m not myself.” He paused, his 
hand over his eyes. “ I ’ve lived for so long under a 
constant strain that I feel at times that I shall go 
mad.” 

“Oh, I know,” she cried eagerly, forgetting her 
own hurt. “You never take a rest. You work and 
work and carry all their troubles and their worries 
as well as their illnesses. You must rest, J.E. It 
is not right. You are quite tired out. That is what 
it is. You ’ve not been a bit yourself lately. Do, for 
every one’s sake, take a holiday.” 

He shook his head. “ No, I ’m all right.” He spoke 
calmly. “ I can’t take a rest till my book is finished.” 

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“ But that will be soon. We will work at it every 
night as we used to, shall we? It won’t take very 
long.” 

“No, not long,” he said moodily. 

“Well, good-bye, J. E., if you must go out. I will 
put on my new pink dress and the pearls and show 
you to-night. Shall I?” 

He shook his head. “ Not to-night. Don’t worry, 
you ’ll have chances enough to wear them this sum- 
mer if you go to my sister’s — as I wish you to do.” 

He glanced at her steadily from under his black 
brows. He saw the delicate colour rise in her cheeks. 

“You don’t say No to that quite as firmly as you 
did,” he said coldly, as he turned to gather up his 
things. 

She walked to the door. There she paused, her 
little head held high, her chin in the air. 

“You know that I don’t want to go,” she said 
very gently. “But I must if you tell me to.” And 
she went out. 

,“ And I shall,” John said to the empty room. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Rufus Haines had wavered for months between 
the desire to speak and the fear of speaking to Lil- 
lian Vincent. Any lack of self-confidence was so 
unusual to him that he was restless and uneasy 
under it. As he brushed his thick brown hair vigor- 
ously before the glass in his bedroom, he argued 
with himself. “ Be a man and get it over. If she’ll 
have you, she’ll have you, and you’ll be a happy 
fellow. If she turns you down, well, you will have 
to stand it. Anyway, any blamed thing’s better 
than wondering if you’re any good, anyway, just 
because a girl does n’t always smile at you. You 
bet you’re some good. And you’re goin’ to get 
there, whether she comes with you or not. Though 
I want her. Lord, how I want her!” 

As he shook his dark blue coat and slipped into 
it, he thought of her, so slim and fair. Yes, and 
educated. Sometimes he wondered if she was not 
a bit above him. “Sesame and Lilies” had been 
followed by Emerson, and Lillian had looked severe 
when he laughed at some of the Concord philo- 
sopher’s pet metaphors. She had even talked of 
Ibsen and George Meredith and had offered to lend 
him “Hedda Gabler” and “The Egoist,” but he 
had gravely assured her that, much as it pained him 
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to resist the offer, he felt that he had no time for 
serious reading. He had, he said, to bone for an 
exam and he was so tired in the intervals that he 
felt he could not do justice to either Ibsen or Mere- 
dith. If she had something light, to distract his 
mind in the pauses of arduous mental exertion — 
She said she understood, though secretly dis- 
appointed, and after some thought gave him “Ships 
that pass in the Night” as not too frivolous. It 
was bound in white-and-gold. He had thrown it 
on his table, where it had lain unread, while he 
roared with laughter over the “Adventures of 
Huckleberry Finn” loaned him by Dr. Erskine. 
The white book had reproached him for a month 
or more. He had finally settled down to it on a 
Sunday afternoon and had returned it to Lillian 
with dutiful comments, ending with a cautious en- 
quiry, Did she like Mark Twain? No, she didn’t 
care for humourists. It was a crushing blow. He 
thought of it now as he poured cologne on his hand- 
kerchief, and took a last survey of himself. It was 
a pity that she did n’t like Mark Twain, but there 
was always music as a bond, though their tastes 
there were not identical. She did not see the beauty 
in his “coon songs,” and inclined to music of a more 
serious nature. But how sweet she looked at the 
piano! To have her in his home would be like living 
in the porch of a cathedral, in the shadow of all 
that was fine and high. Oh, she was miles above 
him. He must seem of coarser clay and fibre to her. 

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If she would only marry him he would try to reach 
her heights and stand beside her. 

Thinking these quite proper thoughts he took his 
new straw hat, stepped out and went to meet his 
fate. Summer had come and the little village was 
blooming. Fruit trees, lilac and syringa, snowball 
and wistaria filled the warm air with perfume. It 
was a lover’s night, made for wooing, and Lillian 
had promised to go for a stroll in the twilight. 

The cottage door was open, and as he neared it 
she came out to him, dressed in white. She looked 
the very incarnation of the young fellow’s dreams. 
Words failed him, and that meant a good deal ! He 
took the light wrap from her arm and they walked 
silently up the road which, after passing the last 
three houses beyond Mrs. Vincent’s, led them into 
the solitude of fields. 

“It’s no use. I ’ve got to have it over.” It was 
not so that he had imagined himself approaching the 
question. “ I can’t stand the uncertainty any longer. 
It’s making a coward of me.” He stopped. 

Lillian faced him. “Oh,” she cried weakly, 
“what do you mean?” 

“Don’t you know, Lillian? You must know that 
I love you — that I want you to be my wife.” He 
was gazing down at her with passionate eyes. “Tell 
me,” — he caught her hands, — “look at me and 
tell me — will you marry me?” 

She turned her eyes from his gaze, gasping, — 

“Oh, I can’t, I can’t.” 

207 


SHIFTING SANDS 

“Can’t?” He dropped her hands. “Can’t? — 
why not?” 

As an answer she turned away, her face in her 
hands, crying. He watched her for a moment, then 
laid his hand on her shoulder. 

“Look here, Lillian, do tell me the trouble. What 
is it?” She only shook her head, sobbing softly. 

He walked along at her side. “But, don’t you 
see, it is not fair to me. I have loved you for so long. 
I have n’t dared to speak, because you seemed so 
strange. Some days I was encouraged, and other 
times not. I don’t suppose you understand quite, 
but a man can’t live like this. The uncertainty 
upsets my work. I don’t want to be selfish, but I 
must have the question answered, once and for 
all.” 

She stopped. The note of decision in his voice was 
new to her. She lifted her head. 

“I wish, I really wish, that I could say yes. 
That ’s been the trouble. I ’ve wanted to, but I ’ve 
known I ought not.” 

“Why?” His voice was crisp. 

“Because,” with fresh tears, “I care for some 
one else.” 

“David?” he asked tersely. “Never mind. You 
need n’t answer if you don’t want to.” 

“I do, though.” She wiped her eyes. “It’s some 
one who has never said anything and maybe does 
not care for me. That makes it harder.” 

“Oh, no,” he said firmly; “there is no question 
208 


SHIFTING SANDS 


if you don’t love me. I would n’t have a wife who 
did n’t. Your mother wants you to, I suppose.” 

Lillian nodded, behind her handkerchief. He stood 
for a moment, his hands in his pockets, staring 
at the ground, then straightened himself sharply. 

“ Well, Lillian, we must go back,” he said. “ Poor 
girl, never mind. It’s hard on us both. But you’re 
right, I think. It’s hard, though. Dash it!” 

“You are not angry?” Lillian’s miserable voice 
recalled him. “ It is not my fault.” 

“Not a bit,” he said generously. “You must n’t 
mind if I am cut up for a while, though. It’s only 
natural, is n’t it? I won’t come in. Could n’t do 
the polite to-night. Good-bye, Lillian.” His voice 
broke. He dropped her hand and turned away. 

He walked on to the square filled with a dull pain 
and rebellion. He was very young still, and the 
bottom seemed to have fallen out of everything. 
He was angry with himself and filled with resent- 
ment, now that he had left her, at Lillian. Certainly 
she had encouraged him in her refined and educated 
way, he told himself. He swore blasphemously to 
himself. 

“Well, Mr. Haines, you won’t see me and you 
evidently intend to walk over me!” 

The voice roused him. He was dimly conscious 
that he had been dodging some one on the sidewalk 
for several minutes. 

“Oh, Miss Levis,” he cried, apologetic at once. 

209 


SHIFTING SANDS 

“ I must have been blind, indeed.” She looked very 
charming. 

“I was only taking a little stroll. Aunt Maria 
will expect me back. Uncle Sam’s had one of his 
bad attacks.” 

“May I walk as far as the house with you?” 

She could not keep the pleased note out of her 
voice as she answered composedly, “Certainly, Mr. 
Haines, if you’d like to.” 

They turned and crossed the square together. 

Half an hour later, as the young man returned to 
his rooms, assuring himself that he was crushed and 
his life over, he was disconcerted, not to say dis- 
appointed in himself, to find that a face with a mis- 
chievous twinkle in its eyes, framed in crinkly 
brown hair, persisted in mocking at the gravity of 
his state and the hopelessness of his future. 

Annoyed, he ended by flinging himself into a 
chair. But as he took up a book by George Ade, he 
remembered with relief that Milly had once owned 
to him that she had read not a word of Ibsen, or 
George Meredith, or Ruskin, or Emerson, and that 
the books she liked best of all were real nice novels, 
awfully romantic, that ended happily. What a 
comfortable, bright, pretty little thing she was — 
like a cosy domestic kitten. He frowned as he real- 
ised the trend of his thoughts, got up, seized a 
photograph of Lillian, gazed upon it intently, 
kissed it with vehemence, and, having thus restored 
his self-respect, he sat down again to his book. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


As soon as June set him free from the not too ardu- 
ous round of Cambridge term life, Rex Challoner, 
much to Mr. Savage’s gratification and surprise, 
returned to the parsonage to pass a part of his vaca- 
tion. He brought an echo of the world to the quiet 
house which, while it vaguely disturbed his grand- 
father, wakened in Constance an unsuspected remi- 
niscent gaiety, through whose medium John Erskine, 
in his turn, was suddenly snatched back to his own 
youth, and compelled to view from that hill of van- 
tage his life, as he had valiantly planned it. From 
that miraculously vouchsafed height of vision he 
fell again to the plane of achieved reality and faced 
the difference with an unsmiling acceptance, which 
became, however, as the weeks passed, shot through 
by an unaccustomed pain. He withdrew himself 
more and more from the interplay of life between 
the two houses in which, he told himself, he had no 
place, looking on with irony at the happy succes- 
sion of rides and walks, of tennis and picnics, which 
filled the summer days. He kept to the study in the 
evenings, seeing before his eyes the group in the 
parsonage garden, or near him, on the broad veran- 
dah, under the Doric pillars. He closed the doors 
that he might not hear the voices. 

It was to the verandah that Rex generally has- 
211 


SHIFTING SANDS 


tened after supper to find Jean. He was coming up 
the steps to-night, his young figure silhouetted to 
her eyes against the moonlit trees. 

“What a jolly night,” he said, coming towards 
her. “Aunt Constance and Miss Manice are com- 
ing later. I say, Jean” — he paused — “the draw- 
ing-room looks ripping in this light.” He drew 
nearer to her white figure and sat down. 

Jean’s hammock creaked as she swung herself. 
“Yes, I know — dim and white — and sweet — 
roses — and my new piano.” She hummed to her- 
self happily until suddenly aware of his steady gaze. 
“Tell me about college,” she said quickly. 

“Oh, I am always talking about myself. You tell 
me about yourself — for a change — ” 

“Nothing to tell.” 

“Oh, look here, Jean. You promised to take me 
out to see those sand-dunes.” 

She nodded. “Yes” — she paused. “I want to 
go” — she leaned forward — “by moonlight! I 
have wanted to go for ages.” 

He looked at her keenly, but her innocence was 
apparent. He hesitated for a moment, then the 
temptation was too much for him. “Well, let’s 
go,” he said. 

“Ought we?” She had a misgiving. 

“With me?” he asked. “Why not? The only 
thing is, we must n’t tell them. Grandfather is 
rather crotchety. You know how old people are.” 

“Yes.” 


212 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“But it would be quite easy. We must wait till 
they’re alseep and then you can meet me at the 
gate — is it far?” 

“Oh, no!” Jean declared, carried away by the 
idea. “Not a bit. Three miles.” 

“It’s settled, then. Let’s go to-night.” Rex had 
to keep the excitement out of his voice. What a 
lark ! She was simply exquisite. He had never seen 
a girl so full of dash and fun, so beautiful, and yet 
so unconscious and young and na’ive. 

Jean’s eyes were wide with excitement. 

“All right,” she cried. “Oh, here they come! Tell 
me quick, Rex, what time?” 

“Twelve o’clock at the gate,” he said, rising with 
her to meet the ladies. 

“You look like conspirators,” Constance de- 
clared. “Is Dr. Erskine — ” 

“ J.E. will be out in a moment,” Jean explained. 
“Mr. Haines is there about the school. They are 
always after him about something. Here he is 
now — ” 

John Erskine stepped into the dark porch. 

“Where are you, Jean? Here’s Mr. Haines, — 
Mr. Challoner, Mr. Haines. Good-evening, Miss 
Savage.” 

“My cousin, Miss Manice, Dr. Erskine. Isn’t 
the moonlight marvellous?” Constance made a 
place for John by her side. “Jean tells me the book 
is nearing completion.” 

“Yes, nearly finished.” John liked sitting by 
213 


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Constance, but he was not thinking of her. He 
glanced at Jean, who was talking very hard to Rex. 
She seemed very gay, vivacious, excited, he thought. 
He strained his ears to catch what she was saying. 
Now he heard her — “You’re too much of a mate- 
rialist. I don’t believe that you will see anything 
or hear anything. But I shall.” 

“What’s that?” Miss Manice broke in. She was 
a tall, dark girl of twenty-five, with prominent black 
eyes and a rather sleepy air, who was interested, for 
want of something better, in the occult. 

“Mr. Challoner won’t believe that anything ex- 
ists that he cannot see or hear,” Jean cried. “And 
I tell him that all that is best just can’t be seen or 
heard.” 

“Oh, I say,” Rex Challoner protested, finding 
attention drawn to himself, “that’s gross misrep- 
resentation. She does not mean what she says, Aunt 
Constance. She has no conscience. It’s very sad in 
one so young. I ’m glad that I am not her guardian.” 

“Not half as glad as I am,” Jean declared. “I 
would n’t change mine for anything in the world. 
He’s a prize guardian, are n’t you, J.E.?” 

“Interested party! He’s debarred from giving 
evidence,” Rex protested. 

“Well, Mr. Haines knows,” Jean insisted. “He’ll 
swear anything I like, won’t you, Mr. Haines?” 

“As long as it’s to Dr. Erskine’s honour!” 1 Mr. 
Haines declared with enthusiasm.^ 

“Of course,” said Constance, laughing; “this is 
214 


SHIFTING SANDS 

turning, like every other Tacitus assemblage, into 
a chorus of Dr. Erskine’s perfections. It’s very nice 
for him.” 

“You’re wrong. You’re wrong.” John Erskine’s 
voice broke in tensely. Suppose he were to rise and 
tell them! The temptation was strong on him. He 
was restless, mad. “If you knew the truth,” he 
said shortly. 

“We do.” Jean’s voice was audacious. “I’ll 
play you what we know,” she cried ; and, jumping up, 
she disappeared with a backward glance through the 
French window. 

“Jean playing without being asked!” Constance 
exclaimed to John. “Wonders will never cease.” 

“Wonders never do with Jean,” John Erskine 
answered. His tone was deep, held a thrill, yet was 
profoundly disheartened. 

A soft chord sounded from the drawing-room, 
then a light arpeggio . 

“The new piano has a beautifully singing tone,” 
Constance remarked. “She is delighted with it.” 

John did not answer. The little group was still. 

Constance Savage listened with deep interest to 
the girl’s improvisation. She herself would begin just 
so. That was the right key for John, the strong tone 
major. Yes, he was best expressed in chords, deep, 
sweet, serene, yet full of power, intense — vital. 
And now she agreed to the slow, bass arpeggio 
accompaniment, full and sure, throwing the austere 
beauty of the treble into relief. The chords were a 

215 


SHIFTING SANDS 


statement of qualities; this was the life based on 
these very qualities — taking its noble course. She 
sat up with a shock. Something — a horrid combi- 
nation of unrelated notes — had shivered the com- 
position. It went on jangling, distorted, yet based 
again upon those chords, the strong arpeggio sob- 
bing through the room — sobbing — sobbing — 
straining — Constance gripped her hands together 
in her lap. John Erskine had bowed his head in 
his hands. Mr. Haines and Miss Manice sat still, 
but Rex had jumped from his chair. The piano 
stopped still with a discord. 

Rex started forward, but John Erskine sprang to 
his feet, and, putting the young man aside, with one 
step gained the drawing-room. 

Jean sat at the piano. She looked at him blankly, 
as though dazed. “Oh, J.E.,” she began uncertainly, 
“J.E.” She put her hand to her head. “I can’t 
think — What was it?” She caught his hand. 
“ J.E., what was it?” 

“Get up,” he said firmly. “Pull yourself to- 
gether.” 

“Oh, J.E.,” — her voice was shaking, — “I can’t 
remember.” 

“Don’t,” he said. “For God’s sake, don’t.” His 
voice, though low, was peremptory. 

“You’re not angry?” She rose. She was white 
and shaking. “ I wanted to play something so splen- 
did.” 

“Musical hysteria!” he said shortly. He turned 
216 


SHIFTING SANDS 

her from him towards the window, his hand on her 
shoulder. 

“It was not,” she declared, regaining her self- 
command. “Oh, you are hateful sometimes, J.E.” 

She walked to the window where she appeared — 
her white figure against the dim background of the 
room. “Did n't I do it well?” she asked, laughing. 
“That’s the new music. You didn’t know what 
I could do in the way of discord, did you, Miss 
Savage?” 

But Constance rose, reproof in her voice. “I 
think you are over-tired. You and Rex rode too 
far to-day. We must all go to bed early to-night.” 

“Indeed, I am not tired,” Jean protested hotly. 
“Truly, I’m not. It’s such a gorgeous night. It’s 
a shame to go to bed.” 

“Well, I’m tired,” Rex declared lightly. “Aunt 
Constance is right. That was a good long ride.” 

Jean, astonished, began an indignant arraign- 
ment of the traitor Rex, when, catching his glance, 
she remembered. How stupid she was. Of course 
they must all get to bed early to-night. With a 
pretty show of yielding, she said good-night and 
watched the whole party, accompanied by Dr. 
Erskine, down the drive to the gate. 

Then, filled with a new, sore resentment at her 
guardian, and excited by the strange experience of 
the evening, she went to her room to wait for the 
appointed hour. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


Jean in her bedchamber needed no light but the 
moon which silvered the grey walls, deepened the 
blue of the hangings, lay palely on the fair white 
of the bed, between the dark of the twisted posts, 
and filled the dignified emptiness of the old room 
with its luminous flood. 

In the middle of the floor, bathed in the moonlight 
the girl slowly changed her dress, slipping from the 
sheath of white and slowly donning a darker gar- 
ment. She was thrilled with the beauty and mystery 
of the night, awake to the beckoning spirit of ad- 
venture which should lead her through the little 
wood to the confines of the sand. Rex was but a 
means to her end. She hardly thought of him or of 
any one. Now, as when she was a child, it was the 
elusive meaning that she hoped to grasp which 
enticed. It would be quite wonderful to stand in 
that tvood in the moonlight, in the middle of the 
night. She had often dreamed of it. 

She heard the doctor come up to bed and the 
old house had long settled into silence and waiting 
before the clock in the hall struck twelve. 

Jean crept out of her room and down the stairs, 
where the moon shone through the high windows 
in long bars of pallid light. Though her heart was 
beating furiously, she did not make a sound as she 
218 


SHIFTING SANDS 


stole through the hall. She hated this stealth. In 
spite of the excitement, the idea was unpleasant. 
She wished she could bang the front door. But she 
opened it softly and stepped out on the verandah, 
leaving it unlocked. She had come hatless and hur- 
ried down the avenue, wondering if Rex was waiting. 
He stepped out from the shadow of the gateposts 
to meet her. 

“You are a brick. Had you any trouble?” 

“Not a bit. But I am shaking all over. It’s fear- 
fully exciting.” 

“We are safe now,” he assured her. “ It’s a pity 
we can’t ride, but it’s fun, anyway.” He drew a 
cigarette from his case and lighted it. “Have you 
ever smoked?” 

She shook her head. 

“Try one now, with me.” 

“No.” 

“Why not? Do.” 

“No.” She could not explain that it would seem 
to give a common touch to this coming experi- 
ence. 

“I thought you wanted to do everything,” he 
teased. 

“Not cheap things,” she said. 

“ Depends on the brand,” he laughed. “ I believe 
you are afraid.” 

“I’m not,” she flamed up. 

“You are,” he insisted. “You are afraid of your 
guardian.” 


219 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“Oh, be quiet,” she cried; “I won't have you 
talking about him.” 

“ I don’t want to talk about him. I ’d rather talk 
about you, Jean. You know, you do look lovely 
in this light. I wish you could see yourself. Really, 
I do.” 

“Well, I don’t. And you promised if I came that 
you would not be silly.” 

Rex laughed. 

Jean shook her head impatiently. “I ought not 
to be coming with you, but I have longed to come 
and I can’t come alone and — ” 

“Oh, don’t explain!” 

“No — but you don’t understand. It’s not a 
question of you and me. It’s the place — I’d have 
come with a boo-daddy rather than not come at 
all.” 

“Oh, well,” he said, rather nettled, “I’m not 
proud. Though why you are so keen on the place 
I can’t think. You are a funny girl, you know.” 

“Thanks. Of course anything that’s not com- 
monplace is mad — or Tunny,’ as you call it. J.E. 
says so.” 

“Oh, he does, does he? A nice guardian, encour- 
aging your queer ideas.” 

She laughed. “At least you do grant they are 
ideas! That is an admission. But don’t let’s fight. 
It’s too distracting; I want to think.” 

They had come to the top of the hill by the sta- 
tion. 


220 


SHIFTING SANDS 

“I say!” Rex exclaimed. They seemed to be 
standing on a divide between two lakes. For the 
mist rising from the creek in the valleys, both be- 
hind and in front of them, had formed seas of vapour 
which lay in silver sheets under the moon. It was 
beautiful to unearthliness, and they lingered gazing 
down upon it before they began to descend and 
were bathed in the cold damp. They walked fast 
to keep warm in the valley and were glad to rise 
again to the hill by the cemetery and to hurry on 
their way. 

“It’s not far now,” Jean said, with a grateful 
glance at the boy who strode along at her side. “ It 
was awfully good of you to come.” She walked so 
fast that Rex could hardly keep up with her. “ See,” 
she cried suddenly over her shoulder — “do you see? ” 

Rex saw nothing but a wood of spindling birch 
and pine trees. 

With the effort to read the enigmatic wonder of 
it, Jean’s eyes were wide. The veil of mist which 
shrouded the spectral birches was there for the 
rending. Something seemed near that she longed 
to grasp. As she moved forward among the trees 
the wondrous expectation lay on her pure face, 
the mystery of it in the depths of her black-fringed 
eyes. More than once, she stopped and listened, 
straining her ears to the whispering of the leaves, 
to the sheen of the moonlight, to the drifting mist. 
Then she moved on again between the trees. She 
had forgotten Rex. She was carried away, caught 
221 


SHIFTING SANDS 

up in an ecstasy by the beauty and the strangeness 
of it all. 

But to him all the beauty and the strangeness 
and the wonder were in her. 

“Jean,” he breathed, as he followed her. “Oh, 
Jean!” His young voice broke. 

Jean, at the edge of the wood, looking out upon 
the waste of sands, heard and stopped uncertainly. 

“Jean — Jean.” He was close behind her. The 
sands made her afraid. She turned blindly and Rex 
caught her in his arms. 

She saw his face above her, his eyes gazing down 
with a light that made her own slowly close. She 
was wrapped in a trance of sweetness — and then 
he kissed her — gently at first, but, as he felt the 
softness of her body, more passionately, on her face, 
on her hair, on her lips. When he paused for breath, 
she did not move. 

“Jean,” he whispered, “Jean, do you love me?” 

She pushed him away, half-dazed. 

“I don’t know,” she said. She was shivering. 
“Oh, let us go back.” She turned brusquely away, 
making her way blindly back through the wood. 

“Why did you?” she cried as he caught up with 
her. 

“Why did I?” he asked indignantly. “Why did 
you let me? You know you did.” 

She shivered again. “Oh, yes, I know I did.” 

“But, Jean,” — his voice was troubled, — “did 
n’t you like me to kiss you?” 

222 


SHIFTING SANDS 

She paused; then answered honestly, “ Yes.” 

“Then,” — his voice was exultant, — “then, dar- 
ling, you love me.” 

“Are you sure, Rex? I don’t think I do.” 

“Of course, you silly girl. Of course you love me. 
You most dear and beautiful. Give me your hand.” 

She let him take it and they walked on together. 
But as he bent down to look into her face, he was 
uneasy at the look in it . “ Darling, ’ ’ he begged, 1 ‘ don’t 
be unhappy. After all, what has happened? You 
have done nothing so dreadful and have made me 
most awfully happy.” 

“I’d rather be miserable,” she said fiercely. “I 
have done something dreadful.” 

“But you love me, darling, so it’s all right.” 

“How do you know that I love you?” Her voice 
was very low. 

“Oh, it’s always that way. The girl never knows 
till the man tells her and kisses her.” 

“I should.” Her voice was stifled. “I am sure 
that I should.” 

“No, you wouldn’t,” he answered decidedly. 
“So, come, do be cheerful. I am so awfully happy. 
You are so beautiful and sweet. Look up at me.” 

She shook her head, fighting against a tempta- 
tion to meet his eyes and lose herself again. “No,” 
she said firmly. “No. And please, please, if you 
really love me, be nice now and let go my hand and 
talk sensibly for the rest of the way home.” 

Rex, mindful of the days to follow, did as she 
223 


SHIFTING SANDS 


asked, and the walk back was as uneventful as the 
walk out had been. At the gate Rex demurred at 
leaving her. 

“I can’t, you know, until I know that you’re 
safely in the house. It’s half-past two o’clock.” 

“I left the front door unlocked and I can slip in 
quite easily.” 

“Well, I shall just come with you as far as the 
steps and see that you do.” 

They turned in together, and walking on the 
grass in the shade of the trees, reached the house 
without sound. There Jean slipped off her shoes and 
went up the steps, crossed the porch, and laid her 
hand on the knob. She was just turning to wave to 
Rex that all was well when the door opened from 
within. John Erskine stood on the threshold, his 
face and figure dark against the dimly lighted hall. 

“Oh, J.E.” Jean’s voice had a curious mixture of 
fear and relief. “How did you know? Have you 
waited up? It’s awfully late.” 

“Yes, it’s late.” His voice was stern. “Is any 
one with you?” 

She answered without hesitation. “Yes, Rex 
Challoner.” 

There was a step on the porch and Rex ap- 
proached. He had not been prepared for this, but 
he was not a coward. 

“Oh, Dr. Erskine,” he began, “it’s my fault if 
Jean — ” 

He got no further. 


224 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“Good-night, Mr. Challoner.” The tone was 
curt, cold, and decided and the door was closed. 

“It was n’t his fault any more than mine,” Jean 
declared, following John into the study. “I’ve 
always wanted to see the sand-dunes by moonlight 
— we thought it would be fun — ” 

“And was it?” His voice was hard. 

The girl looked at him for an instant only. Then 
her lids fluttered and fell before his searching glance. 
His eyes were blazing ; the vein that only showed in 
moments of passion zigzagged across his forehead. 

“Oh, no,” she said hurriedly, “it wasn’t much. 
But I did n’t mean to do anything wrong. You 
know I did n’t, J.E., don’t you?” 

Silence answered her. In it a realisation of the 
night’s excursion, as John saw it, gradually grew 
upon her, stifling her. To him it was an escapade. 
Could he not understand — would he not! With 
an extreme effort she again raised her eyes and 
looked at him — her face was white, innocent, tense. 
She would not appeal, but she would state. If he 
would only see. But he did not. His back was 
turned to her, his figure rigid. 

For the first time since she had been beneath his 
roof she felt alone and lonely. It seemed incredible 
that he should fail her now when she was bewildered, 
when she so wanted help. If she could only break 
this silence, beat down the strange barrier which 
was tangibly between them, and explain. Yet how 
could she explain? The memory, less of Rex’s 
225 


SHIFTING SANDS 


kisses than of her own acceptance of them, came to 
her with a sudden shock. There was nothing to be 
said, nothing to be done. Courage and confidence 
in herself, in her own motives for the night’s walk, 
left her. Yet her reason battled for her. What had 
she done? If she loved Rex, all was right. If she 
did not, she had been taken unawares, overcome 
by a temptation as new as it was unsuspected. She 
wavered — no, there was nothing that she could 
explain. She turned to the door. She was very tired 
now. 

‘‘Good-night,” she said in a low voice. 

“Good-night,” he spoke with an effort, over his 
shoulder. “Your candle is in the hall. Good-night.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


With the closing of the door John Erskine turned. 
His will had held him there, his back to her, though 
every fibre, every racing drop of blood, every nerve 
was calling to her. He loved her — 

He looked now at the place where she had stood 
and saV her still — slim, dark, innocent, appealing, 
and — desirable. He said the word with a shudder 
which marked the recognition of the woman in the 
child whom he had cherished. 

Once allowed, it was repeated — desirable — 
desirable; but if to him, then to a whole world of 
men. God, how he hated the boy! He trembled 
still with the passions that had shaken him since 
he had found her gone. 

If the village call had not come for him; if he had 
not found the door unlocked, her handkerchief 
upon the ground, would he, perhaps, never have 
known? A panic fear had taken him to her room, 
followed by a jealous rage, when, silence answer- 
ing his knock, the bed lay smooth beneath his 
hand. And then, the tearing hurt and pain of her 
deceit. 

Yet none of these, fear, hate, nor hurt, had told 
him the truth till her return with the boy merged 
all in awakened passion. In that revealing moment 
he had known that he loved her. 

227 


SHIFTING SANDS 


Now he must endeavour to understand this in- 
credible, appalling fact, face this impossible posi- 
tion. His head seemed filled with a tangle of red- 
hot, darting thoughts. He must bring them to 
some coherence. He turned uncertainly. He was 
spent, but he could not rest. The torture of his 
mind kept his body moving up and down the 
room. 

Surely there was a huge irony in the situation 
which must divert the Gods! He said the Gods, 
but he meant that God of his fathers whose presence 
even the unbelieving son of the Puritans must feel 
in time of stress. 

He felt “the Gods are just” — “our God is a 
just God” — what if more than irony were here? 
If reparation were turned to punishment? Punish- 
ment — he met the idea dully. 

His thoughts came now in flashes — detached, 
in phrases, in single words. They were words which 
he had never consciously used — words which to 
a type of modern mind have lost their force — but 
they were words which were natural to the lips of 
his fathers. Remorse — punishment — expiation — 
renunciation. Renunciation! That was the word 
— that was the way. And after would come deso- 
lation — intolerable emptiness • — he dared think 
on that no more. It was incredible that he had 
believed himself paying the debt to the child all 
these years, when the child had been filling his life 
with the joy of her youth, with the sight of her 
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waxing beauty, with the delight in her growing 
powers. Fool ! He had told her in this very room 
so short a time ago that he was only doing his 
duty. 

Yet he had meant well — he told himself weakly. 
People had applauded, had talked of a sacrifice 
when he took her, small, frail, sensitive, unwanted 
by her own kin. Then there was no promise of this 
beauty and this charm. He could not have fore- 
seen that she would grow daily fairer, more like 
Mary; yet still unlike. Unsparingly, he searched 
himself and knew how long ago duty had become 
pleasure. He knew she had interested him from the 
first. He would never have wasted his time on her 
unless she had — would not have taken her into 
his walks and talks and work. He realised now that 
she had grown day by day and year by year into 
the very centre of his world — that understanding, 
affection, love had all prepared the way for this 
passion which, smouldering, had now burst into 
flame. To save her from himself — to save himself 
from dishonour — she must go. 

He stopped for the first time in his walk, his face 
grey and drawn. He must plan for the immediate 
future. 

He turned to his desk and sat down. But before 
he took up his sister’s letter which lay there, a wave 
of pain surged over him again, made up of a crowd 
of petty, torturing thoughts. What of this evening? 
Had she deceived him so before? What had hap- 
229 


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pened? Had the boy dared — had she — He gripped 
himself. Suspicion was intolerable. 

He took up the letter and read it. Mrs. Gray 
asked if she might have Jean for a long visit and 
ended with the word he sought : — 

“Frances will not be here. She is sailing on the 
15th with our old governess, Miss Hawks, for a 
summer abroad. They are going first to Munich 
for the summer opera season at the Prinz Regenten 
Theatre and for the Strauss festival.” 

He must make his decision now. Before the sight 
of her could betray him into weakness. To-day was 
the 10th. He would arrange by wire. This first, 
to send her from him and the future would take 
care of itself. He drew a block to him and wrote: 
“Should consider it great favour if Jean could join 
Frances, sailing 15th. Arrange for stateroom and 
letter of credit to suitable amount. Draw on me.” 
He signed it with a firm hand, folded it, put it in 
his pocket and rose. It was four o’clock. He drew 
the blue curtains apart. Dawn was breaking. Jean 
was sleeping above. How many dawns would break 
and find him here alone. 

But self-pity he would not allow. He had de- 
served his punishment. It was just. Therefore to 
be borne as unflinchingly as might be. The only 
unbearable pain would be to see Jean ever suffer 
as well. 

He turned from the window with a face stamped 
by the night of suffering, looked around the room 
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with dull eyes, then opened the door, walked down 
the hall and left the house. 

Jean, sleepless in the room above, heard the door 
close. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Buff walls above a white wainscot, an Adams man- 
telpiece holding old silver candlesticks and yet 
older blue vases of Chinese porcelain ; the beautiful 
grain and rich colour of cherished mahogany, white 
matting, and blue carpets; and a bare polished 
table reflecting the white gleam of silver and masses 
of blue flowers — these were the details which to- 
gether made the dining-room a pleasant place. 

Yet to two of the three who met there this morn- 
ing it was a place of gloom. Cousin Roxina had 
been waiting for some time before Jean came slowly 
down and took her seat without a word of excuse. 

“Every one is very late,” Cousin Roxina fussed. 

Jean did not answer. What was going to happen? 
Would J.E. come to breakfast and lecture her 
afterwards? Or would he stop away all day and 
then ignore it? She hoped that he would have it 
out with her and say what he felt. She told herself 
that she could not bear a hostile silence. She began 
to eat mechanically, her eyes on her plate, feeling 
numb and tired after the sleepless night, till a step 
on the verandah and a shadow in the window made 
her heart leap. He was coming. 

“Sorry I am late,” his voice was controlled. “I 
went for an early dip in the creek,” he explained to 
Cousin Roxina. “Good-morning, Jean.” 

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He sat down, laying a letter on the table. “Yes, 
I went out early and had my bath and got the mail. 
There's a letter here from Marian. A great chance 
for you, Jean.” His tone was almost genial in his 
effort to keep out all bitterness. “Frances is going 
abroad with Miss Hawks to spend the summer. 
Going to Munich for the opera and the musical fes- 
tival. I want Jean to go with her.” He addressed 
the old lady. He could not look at the girl. 

“For the land’s sake !” Cousin Roxina exclaimed ; 
“John Erskine, where do you get your ideas? When 
are they going?” 

“The 15th.” 

“The 15th? Only five days. She never could get 
ready — to go to Europe — in five days — Well, I 
never did — ” 

Jean sat still, speechless. He was sending her 
away. He did not trust her — could never have 
cared for her. She raised her head and gave him 
one startled, level, appealing glance which he re- 
fused to see. 

“My dear cousin, of course she can get ready. 
What is a summer abroad ? Anything that she needs 
she can get in New York — Miss Hawks will know. 
It ’s a great opportunity — Strauss — Wagner — 
the Mozart operas given as they are nowhere else — ” 

“I don’t believe she wants to go a bit,” Cousin 
Roxina declared uneasily. “ Do you, Jean? ” 

“Yes, if J.E. wants me to.” She spoke steadily. 
“He knows, I suppose.” 


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“You will enjoy it,” he said doggedly. “Any 
girl would enjoy it.” 

“Of course I shall enjoy it.” She braced herself 
to the occasion. Poor J.E., he could not bear to 
have her in the house. Yet he had the decency not 
to want to send her away to be unhappy. The least 
she could do was to help him — to fall in with his 
plans. “It’s a splendid chance, Cousin Roxina,” 
she declared. 

“To go so far,” the old lady murmured. 

John pushed back his chair sharply. “Nonsense, 
far! It ’s nothing in these days. You know that the 
girls go to Paris and back for their clothes for the 
season and never think twice of it.” But as he spoke 
the knowledge that seasons would come and go 
before she would return held him motionless. Was 
there no other way? Must these five days be spent 
in this defence — holding her away from him, wear- 
ing a mask which she had never known? The long- 
ing was upon him to turn, to hold out his hand to 
her, to see her face melt from its white pride. He 
walked steadily out of the room and they heard him 
go down the hall to the study. 

Jean rose. “ I ’ll do the flowers now.” 

“Just as if nothing had happened?” Miss Roxina 
was incredulous. 

“Why not?” Jean spoke shortly over her shoul- 
der, as she went out. The strain had told upon her 
temper. 

When John Erskine came in at four o’clock he 
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found Cousin Roxina alone in her sitting-room. He 
threw a telegram on the table. 

“Jean must get her things together.” He walked 
to the open window and stood, staring out. 

“She has gone to her room. She has a headache, 
John. I ’ve never known Jean to have a headache.” 

He turned. “When you go in to see her, tell her 
that the Challoner boy has been called home and 
left a good-bye for her.” 

“Dear, dear. Seems as if a lot was happening 
to-day. She will be sorry. I thought something, 
maybe, was wrong between them that he had n’t 
been here to-day.” 

“What could be?” John asked shortly. 

Miss Roxina hesitated. “I don’t know — they 
have been great friends.” 

John turned on his heel and left the room. 

“Cousin John is very short at times,” she said to 
herself. “ Something is the matter now. But I don’t 
know what. Well, I ’ll go and tell Jean.” 

She found the girl lying on her bed in her room, 
her face hidden. 

“Thank you, Cousin Roxina,” she said in reply 
to the message. “Yes, my head is better. No, I 
shan’t begin to pack till the morning and I don’t 
want any supper. Thank you — no — I don’t 
want anything.” 

The following days seemed lost to Jean in a maze 
of wearisome detail. She tried to pause, to catch at 
time, to stay her feet on the threshold of this new 
235 


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experience, but she found herself hurried on, pre- 
sumed to be competent and calm, to be interested 
in Constance’s decisions as to what should be taken 
and what left, in Miss Meek’s hundred last stitches, 
or in Cousin Roxina’s troubled foldings and refold- 
ings. But her head beat and buzzed and she acted 
mechanically under Constance’s direction, hardly 
knowing what she did. It seemed so impossible 
that J.E. should let her go like this. Reluctant at 
first to accept Constance’s proffered experience and 
help, she ended by a complete dependence, clinging 
to the older woman, seeming not to want her out 
of her sight, until on the last afternoon, as they sat 
exhausted in Jean’s room over a hasty cup of tea, 
Constance, studying the girl’s tired, strained face, 
was moved to speak. 

“Jean, don’t think it silly, but I must tell you 
how much the last few days have meant to me. I 
have always loved you. But you have always held 
me off. It has hurt because I have felt that it was 
my fault: that, if I had been wiser, you would have 
turned to me.” 

Jean caught her breath. “Oh, please don’t. It 
was never your fault. I was such an idiot. I wanted 
to let myself care — but I could n’t. You never 
can imagine — I’ll tell you. I’ve been jealous! 
Jealous of you, Miss Constance — ” 

“Jealous!” The elder woman’s face paled. 

“Oh, don’t you see? You were grown up and I 
was only a child and J.E. liked going to see you.”, 
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“Jean!” 

“Yes, I must tell you! I almost hated you.” 

“And I was so stupid that I never imagined.” 

“Oh, I could not have borne it if you had.” 

“ Of course not. And now?” 

Jean laughed, but the laugh ended in a catch of 
the voice. “ I feel that I am grown up, too.” 

“I see.” 

Jean read the pain in her voice. “It’s more than 
that,” she said impulsively. “I have been so un- 
happy and so — lonely these last few days. And 
you are so calm and strong, like a mother — ” Her 
voice broke. 

“My dear!” Constance’s voice thrilled with 
tenderness. “Poor little girl. I have thought — I 
have felt — - is it Rex?” 

“Rex!” The surprise in the girl’s voice was an- 
swer enough. 

“Well, remember,” Constance said firmly, “that 
I am always the same, always here, and” — she 
smiled — “that whoever else you may have to be 
jealous of, it will not be me.” 

Jean threw up her head. “That would n’t make 
any difference to me now,” with pitiful bravery. 
“And I think you’re the most splendid woman in 
the world!” 

Constance gathered her into her arms, holding 
her tight for an instant in silence. Then, with a 
kiss, she left her. 

John, unable to face a last evening, was yet un- 

237 


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able to stay away. He did not come to supper, but 
he appeared in the sitting-room at nine o’clock. Jean 
was writing baggage labels at the table and Cousin 
Roxina was finishing a pair of bedroom slippers. 

Jean looked up. Her tired little face, in the dark 
frame of hair, the pathetic droop of the red mouth, 
the blue circles beneath her eyes touched him to the 
quick. He had to remind himself sternly that he 
was cruel to be kind. 

“ You are too tired to play?” he said as he sat 
down. 

“Never, J.E.” 

She went to the piano and, opening it, touched the 
notes softly. She was not too tired, but afraid to 
play. He knew that she was, but he longed and hun- 
gered to hear. For a moment it might bring them 
closer together, before this final parting. 

Tentatively she struck a chord. Then her fingers 
strayed into the song of Sollweg from “ Peer Gynt.” 
She played it singingly, “But I shall come again.” 
Did he know the words? Would he think her silly, 
sentimental? As she played the last note, Cousin 
Roxina sniffed emotionally. Jean sprang up, glad 
of an excuse to stop. 

“Oh, Cousin Roxina! Is n’t she silly, J.E.? I am 
only going for two months.” She hung over the 
old lady. “I shall be back again before you know 
it. Don’t cry.” 

“You and John are all I ’ve got in the world,” the 
old lady quavered. 

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“Well, we shall think that we are more than you 
deserve if you cry about it,” John said kindly. “ It ’s 
time for us all to go to bed. We have to be up early. 
I hope to take Jean as far as Attica to meet Frances.” 
He turned away. 

At his words, Jean, closing the piano, looked up 
eagerly. 

But John was going towards the door. “Good- 
night,” he said without looking back. 

“Good-night,” she answered in a low voice, her 
head bent as she drew the green cover gently down. 
“Only two months,” she said under her breath. 
“And perhaps he will say something to-morrow. 
If only he says something to-morrow!” 

But when the morning came, John Erskine was 
called to attend a case of life and death. There 
were no good-byes said. It was Miss Savage who 
took Jean into the little town and saw her into Miss 
Hawks’s capable hands on board the New York 
express. 


CHAPTER XXX 


The exaltation which often accompanies an act of 
self-sacrifice is not unusually succeeded by a corre- 
sponding depression during which the other state 
of feeling seems remote and its resultant action 
absurd. 

While Jean was still with him, in his care, under 
his roof, John had held himself sternly in hand, 
nerved to the one only possible course of action 
which was open to him, if he, in any degree, intended 
to keep his own esteem. Her innocent youth and the 
touching beauty which had made him love her gave 
him the chivalrous strength to save her from him- 
self. With her before him, he had no temptation to 
betray his own honour, but was, on the contrary, 
held, by his knowledge of her belief in him, to carry 
to its end, whatever the cost to himself, his first 
decision. 

A stern self-judgement, a grim satisfaction in a 
vicarious atonement in his own body for a past sin, 
a Puritan stoicism carried him through the days 
that passed to Jean’s going. 

He refused to see that she suffered. He told him- 
self that change would set all right with her. That 
if she cared for Rex, — which he doubted, — • or if 
she carried any disturbing sense of a troubled self- 
respect resulting from the nocturnal escapade, or 
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if she were merely hurt at his firm determination 
to send her away, which he realised that she must 
misjudge and misunderstand — if she were unhappy 
from whatever reason, the voyage, the journey, new 
scenes, people, and the great music would soon 
awaken new interests and enthusiasms to the ex- 
clusion of all that had gone before. 

He had allowed himself only the anticipated 
weakness of taking her to Attica, the melancholy 
pleasure of a last hour alone with her. But he had 
accepted almost gratefully the necessity which had 
snatched even that solace from him. An inherited 
fatalism had told him that he was rightfully de- 
prived of it, that the mere contemplation of it was 
a forbidden indulgence. 

He had finished his day in a stubborn refusal to 
think of her as gone. But when, towards evening, 
it was necessary to return home — when he came 
back to the knowledge that the house was empty of 
her presence, his fortitude left him. He stopped 
the horses at the steps, threw the reins to his man, 
leaped out and hurried across the stone verandah, 
through the house to his study. 

Now that it was done, that she was gone, he was 
seized with a kind of panic fear of his own self-in- 
flicted suffering. He had known that when it was 
over realisation would come. And it was here — his 
flesh rebelled. Life without her became an un- 
thought-of possibility. He wanted her with an 
intolerable longing. Nothing that he could urge, 
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no duty, no moral obligation, seemed a strong enough 
reason for suffering this agony. It was well to say 
that she must go while he could still call her to him, 
but now? No call could reach her. And she would 
pass further and yet further from him. The thought 
was torture. He must go to her ! Go to her now — 
at once. Action that would take him to her seemed 
the only possible course. He could drive to Attica — 
twenty miles, and get the express there for New 
York. He could be in New York in the morning. 
He could be at their hotel in time for breakfast. 
He could see her — little Jean — little Jean — see 
her ! See the colour dye her small face, see her grey 
eyes darken. He could hear her voice, indescribably 
glad, cry, “Oh, J.E. !” with the break that he loved. 
He could hold her slim brown hands in his. He 
could see her, hear her, touch her. The boat did 
not leave till the afternoon. He would take her 
away — drive her to the park — anywhere — only 
alone — alone with him — 

And then? He came to a standstill in his rapid 
pacing. Suppose he followed her for a bare sight of 
her — or even for the sake of an hour alone with her? 
How should it profit him? For — and this he knew 
well — he could never speak of love to her — never, 
he reiterated, tell her — 

But he must! For a moment, suffering blinded 
him to the real issue. He had once been weak. 
Suppose he were now just a little weaker? A little 
weaker — supremely weak — damned to the utter- 
242 


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most depths for her? He would suffer any torment 
there for her. Shaken by the thrill and the mad 
glory of the temptation, he walked to the clock. 
There was yet time to throw a few things in his bag, 
order the horses, and make the train. 

A knock. The door opened abruptly. 

“Jean has left her umbrella.” Cousin Roxina 
held the article in her hand. Her eyes were red — 
her nose was red — she looked very tired and pathe- 
tic. “What shall we do?” 

John gazed at her. Jean had left more than the 
umbrella. “Do? Shall I take it to New York, to 
her, to-night?” 

Cousin Roxina gasped. “It’s too late. The train 
left at six.” 

“ I can get the train at Attica. I can drive.” 

“ But for an umbrella — ” 

“True,” he laughed, “for an umbrella.” 

“All the way to New York?” She thought him 
quite mad. 

“Perhaps she left it on purpose,” he suggested. 
“Perhaps she wants a new one.” 

“But it’s a quite good one.” 

“Quite good.” He smiled ironically. “A little 
damaged. She will do well to change it. Put it 
away, Cousin Roxina, I am not going.” He turned 
on his heel and walked down the room. The old 
lady had been crying. What a relief tears — facile 
tears — must be — He turned kindly. 

“See here, Cousin Roxina, you mustn’t feel cut 
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SHIFTING SANDS 


up about her going. Believe me, it’s the very best 
thing for her or I should be the last one to wish 
it.” 

“ I know you’re right, John, but, as Martha says, 
the house is so empty without her. We ’ve had her 
so long now. Why, John, it’s five years since she 
came — more.” 

He stood at his table, touching the flowers that 
Jean had arranged. “And you think, Cousin Roxina 
that she’s been fairly happy with us?” He spoke 
without looking up. 

“As happy as the day is long.” 

“Well, our business is to keep her happy. That’s 
why she has gone abroad — I had — forgotten — ” 

“Forgotten?” Miss Roxina was wiping her eyes. 
“Forgotten! Oh, I hope she won’t be seasick. I 
put a lemon in her bag where she ’ll see it first thing 
when she gets her brush and comb.” She looked 
up at John fervently. 

“As good as anything,” he said perfunctorily, 
not to disappoint her of a professional opinion. “I 
wired for fruit and flowers to the boat — girls like 
that kind of thing.” 

Martha appeared at the door. 

“Dinner is ready.” She sniffed audibly. It was 
her way of asserting her share in the family fortunes. 

It was not till later in the night, when the last 
train for New York was speeding on its fiery-eyed 
way, that John Erskine, his head buried in his hands 
above his desk, after battling through a new depth 
244 


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of desolation, at last found relief in the thought that 
Jean was now irrevocably beyond his reach and 
shuddered to think where his earlier madness might 
have led him. He slept that night. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


The heat was intense that summer in Tacitus. 

Constance Savage came down early one morning 
towards the end of August, hoping to work for an 
hour before breakfast in the garden, while the sun 
was not yet quite unbearable. But already, at 
seven o’clock, the sun had dried the dew and the 
garden lay so hot and still that Constance after 
one look turned back for her garden-hat. She knew 
that the sweet-peas needed picking, and that, if 
she was to have any presentable blooms on the late 
chrysanthemums, the superfluous buds should be 
pinched to-day. 

Pinning on her wide hat she walked down the 
broad middle path and saw with surprise the back 
of a man who was kneeling at the end among the 
chrysanthemums. It was not the day for the gar- 
dener. It was not till she was quite close that she 
recognised the preacher. For once he had discarded 
his black hat for something cooler — a farmer’s 
hat of straw. 

“Trespassing at seven o’clock in the morning,” 
Constance called gaily. “This is serious.” 

Owen Owens did not turn, but spoke over his 
shoulder, absorbed in his occupation. 

“I asked the boy had he pinched them and he 
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said he did not know one end from t’other. It’s 
too hot for a lady to work. So I just looked in. I 
been here since six o’clock. It ’s grand to be out in 
the world of a morning early — - ‘ when the sun doth 
arise and make happy the skies.’ ” 

She walked round to where she could face him, 
in his early morning costume, his decorous black 
legs topped by an old white linen coat and the 
wide-brimmed hat. 

“ It’s kind of you to think about my poor plants. 
I was just coming out to do some of them, for 
they have been on my conscience — oh, you have 
brought me some of your sweet-peas!” She bent 
to lift a basket of bright- winged blossoms. “No 
one in Tacitus has such sweet-peas — They are 
for me?” 

“They ar-re. When are you taking your father 
away? I hear he looked very bad on Sunday.” 

“Oh, we are going this week. I know that I must 
take him — yet if it were not for that I would n’t 
go. I mean, because of Dr. Erskine. He looks com- 
pletely tired out. The hot weather has brought so 
much illness. Not that we can be of much help, 
but still we are here.” She watched the preacher’s 
dexterous fingers hover and nip. She had never 
spoken to him of John Erskine. He did not respond 
to her remark, his attention fixed apparently on 
the plants, his eye searching for the bud of selec- 
tion, his fingers carrying out his intent until, with 
apparent irrelevance, he quoted : — 

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11 1 Man was made for joy and woe, 

It is right it should be so. 

And when this we rightly know, 

Through the world we safely go.’ 

Now, ma’am, this will do for this lot. Shall I have 
a look at the peas?” He arose, dusting his black 
trousers. “ I cannot see why the servants of the God 
of Nature should wear a sable leevery — it is most 
inappropriate and it shows the dust. So these ar-re 
the plants?” 

“They ought to have been picked,” Constance 
avowed apologetically. 

He waved an impatient hand. “ Picking will keep 
them blooming. But you can’t make blooms like 
mine grow on plants like these here. Plant earlier, 
ma’am. Plant earlier.” 

She felt he was giving them but superficial atten- 
tion. They stepped back to the path together. 

“Ye’ve never known the real John Erskine,” he 
said abruptly. “He has changed. The boy has 
changed.” 

“Not just now,” Constance exclaimed. 

“Eh?” 

“Not just now.” They had involuntarily stopped. 
“I mean, when I came, five years ago, he had al- 
ready changed. I noticed it. I had seen him before 
in Boston. But ought we to talk of him?” She 
smiled. 

“We ar-re his friends.” 

“But there’s nothing that we can do, is there?” 

248 


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“I fear-r gr-reatly not.” 

“Anyway, he's overworking now, isn’t he? In 
this heat. They will have him all over the country 
and he goes wherever he is called — One good 
thing, he tells my father that he has bought a motor. 
That will save him immensely. But it does seem, 
sometimes, as if he were wilfully pushing himself 
too far.” 

The preacher nodded. “I have had the thought 
myself.” 

“Could n’t you speak to him?” 

Owen Owens shook his head, pinching his thin 
lips. “Well, ma’am, plant your peas on St. Patrick’s 
Day. Early in, that’s the secret.” 

Constance smiled. “Oh, it’s not only the culture 
that goes into flowers that makes them grow. It’s 
an understanding that comes from love. You ’ve 
got it more than any of us. That’s why yours are 
best. But I will try planting earlier this year.” 

She watched him down the road, then turned to 
meet the maid who came out with the morning mail. 
As she took the letters from the tray, she saw Jean’s 
writing, and with an anticipation of pleasure, turned 
back to the old grape arbour in the garden where 
tiger lilies burned orange in the sun on either side 
the entrance, and an indulged wild convolvulus 
mingled its mauve-and-white blossoms with the fine 
grape tendrils that waved above it. Constance sat 
down upon the weather-stained bench within and 
opened the thin foreign envelope. It was from 
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Munich and was full of the usual enthusiastic and 
detailed account of the places Jean had been to and 
the music she had heard. It was not till the last 
page that Constance found a surprise — “Have 
you heard that I am not going home till the spring? 
Hurrah! Miss Hawks wrote to ask J.E. and he says 
that I may stay. Miss Hawks is taking a furnished 
flat for Frances and me! We are going to work like 
Trojans. But we shall have a good time, too, I 
think, because Frances’s mother and her aunt, Lady 
Mackenzie, both know people here who will be nice 
to us. We go to the English church because Miss 
Hawks knows the wife of the English Ambassador! 
I can see myself becoming in time a finished snob. 
But is n’t it natural to prefer to be among the 
mighty few rather than in the crowd? Of course it 
is most superior to sit in the seat of the scornful, as 
perhaps you are doing now, dear Miss Constance.” 

Constance folded the letter and went in to break- 
fast. So Jean was not coming back. Without know- 
ing quite why, she was not surprised. Thinking 
over those last days spent with the young girl, two 
months before, she wondered if John Erskine had 
suspected a dawning interest in his ward and had 
with instant delicacy sent the child abroad. If so, 
his remedy had evidently succeeded admirably. 
The girl was keenly interested in the new life and 
ready for anything that the future might bring. 
And Constance added that to Jean Dimmock the 
future might bring anything! 


CHAPTER XXXII 


John Erskine welcomed the incessant calls upon 
his skill which kept him on the road, driving from 
end to end of the countryside during the late sum- 
mer and early autumn. He felt that in work, in a 
tireless and unremitting activity, lay his only chance 
of sanity. As long as his profession could keep him 
immersed in the cares of others — could hold his 
interest fixed upon the others — so long could he 
keep his mind from his own trouble. 

Out all day, on a long round of visits, out again 
often at night, he was too tired when he had a 
moment’s pause to put his own pain into connected 
thought. He worked with grim satisfaction in his 
bodily fatigue, pushing his endurance to the very 
limit in order to drug his mind through physical 
exhaustion. He feared leisure for thought, dreaded 
blank nights when a rested body might be kept 
tossing for hours a prey to the restless mind. 

Even Cousin Roxina was moved to a protest, 
when, after sending the letter which committed Jean 
to the prolonged year of Munich life, he started 
out for a drive of twenty miles on top of a long 
day. 

“Can’t they send to Attica, John? It does not 
seem right that you must go out again without a 
rest. Could n’t you telephone that you can’t come?” 

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He waved her away impatiently. “Certainly 
not. I am going. Good-bye.” 

In the late autumn this pressure of work was over, 
and John Erskirie was face to face with himself 
for long hours in the study, so filled with memories 
of Jean. With the determination to go straight, to 
bear his punishment manfully, yet afraid of his own 
half-understood weakness, he tried to throw him- 
self into work of a different form. He got out the 
manuscript of his book and sat down before it, 
giving the command to himself that here his thought 
should centre. But page after page brought back 
the eager child who had helped him, till he found 
himself gazing with blind eyes at the words before 
him. 

Then, realising the uselessness of evasion, he 
forced her image up from the shadow of the familiar 
room, till the vision became as real as the mirage 
in the desert to the eyes of the thirsting man — 
seeing — seeing — seeing — but never reaching, 
never touching. It became an exasperation beyond 
endurance. He could not sit still. His restlessness 
grew beyond control, and his temper became so 
uncertain that he shrank from meeting any one. 
His nerves played surprising tricks, rousing him to 
acute annoyance for the most trivial reasons. 

“There’s no pleasing Mr. John,” Martha grum- 
bled. “He speaks like he never used to — that 
quick. Or else he never says a word for the whole 
meal. I never see him like this afore. He never 
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goes near nobody — only when he has to. Just 
settin’ in that room and studyin’.” 

But there came a night when strain on body and 
mind at last drove him forth. The room was haunted, 
filled with the vibrations of her presence, with the 
disturbing brain waves of his own agonies lived 
there. 

Pushed to the uttermost extremity of endurance, 
he fled the place, let himself out into the winter 
night, and walked like a drunken man quickly, un- 
certainly, down the path to the office. 

Mr. Tanner had gone home hours before. John 
Erskine unlocked the door and stumbled into the 
small, stuffily chill, drug-laden atmosphere of the 
dispensary. He lit the lamp on the table and, carry- 
ing it, opened the door and walked into his office 
beyond. There the fire still burned in the stove. 

He set down the lamp and drew a breath of relief. 
Here, disentangled from that maze of feelings lived 
but still vibrant, free in this clearer atmosphere, 
which seemed already tonic, he could brace himself 
to find some new way of life which would yet be 
endurable. 

With a professional interest quite detached from 
himself, he thought cursorily, as he sat down, on this 
relief that a mere change of room had brought. He 
looked about him. The shelves bore the fine scien- 
tific library collected by his father with large addi- 
tions made by himself. There was sanity to his eye 
in those rows of fat calfskin volumes, something 
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solid upon which to rest. That other room was lined 
with the literature of unrest — the poetry, the 
essays, the plays, the novels, the philosophy of a 
brilliant modernity, which had been since his early 
manhood the food of his mental and spiritual life. 
With what an intellectual arrogance had he ac- 
cepted their teachings in place of a sceptically re- 
jected, unreasoned religion! 

They had failed to satisfy, had failed to help. 
But here, he told himself, as his eyes ranged the 
book-lined walls, was the true religion, which asks 
a man’s life as does the cloister, which offers a field 
of far adventure, of high romance; science, the true 
religion, offering crowns and martyrdom. 

The marble busts of great men looked down upon 
him with cold, keen faces from along the top of the 
bookshelves, and he recalled the fact that he had 
thought himself of this following. 

He turned away his eyes, shaken with a sick dis- 
taste of himself. He, who had left the field abroad 
to follow the call of duty ; who had returned to this 
place penetrated by a high ideal ; — he had fallen 
at the first temptation. He must answer now this 
question — Should he sink in the grip of human 
passion? Thwarted he knew that it works a revenge 
curious and complex of suffering, from which in a 
strong man some memorable result is to follow, 
whether good or bad — but far-reaching. He now 
realised with disgust that the end he had glimpsed 
up there to-night as offering itself here in this room 
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was the refuge of the coward. Death — as held in 
vial and box and powder in the crowded shelves 
of the dispensary — death had lurked in the back 
of his consciousness, as the one escape from unbear- 
able suffering. Here, in surroundings created by 
his father, the idea had no place. In that other room 
he had called himself the sport of chance, the play- 
thing of fate; here he dared not. Here he knew 
that there is no chance, no fate, save that which 
every man carries in the depths of his inherited 
being. 

Sitting in his father’s chair, in the place where the 
sturdy old doctor had acted as providence and ar- 
biter to the community for half a century, he real- 
ised unwillingly the forces which combat all chance 
in life. Chance had taken him abroad — the meet- 
ing with a fellow student in New York who was 
about to sail — and chance had led him then to 
Munich to study. But no chance had brought him 
back to Tacitus. Some deep, inborn proclivity, 
some love of place and people, some will to do the 
difficult, some glimpse of the larger purpose in the 
less, had combated the chance-born future which 
opened itself so pleasantly before him over there. 

He had obeyed the prompting. Independent in 
means and movements, he had yet turned his back 
on ambition and on the world for this. He had 
come home, provided with all the new theories, all 
the new philosophies which point a finger at the 
weak spots in the social system but raise no cross 
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of hope above them. He had put his pride and his 
brain into his work among his father’s people. He 
had wished to lead them out of the narrow old into 
the broad new ways. He had given them a library 
in memory of his father where they could read Shaw 
and Wells and Ibsen and Tolstoy and Nietzsche, 
and they had solemnly asked for the books their 
fathers had read. No one but Rufus Haines had 
taken out Renan’s “Life of Jesus.” They had known 
Renan too long as the name of an atheist. 

On Saturday afternoon Lillian Vincent, who was 
librarian, sat behind the table in the cheerful room 
with its open fire, its tables full of illustrated papers 
and reviews, and neatly inscribed the most conser- 
vative of the thousand books on the weekly lists of 
the members. And, oddly enough, as time passed, 
John had been glad to have it so. Perhaps distrust 
of his own opinions as he grew older made him less 
anxious to impose them upon others — especially 
upon people who looked up to him. 

For they did that. They respected him for his 
untiring devotion to them in all times of illness or 
trouble, and they loved him too. Ah! it was his 
pride in their affectionate regard which had led him 
to — 

He stopped. The old circle — would it never 
cease? Even here must he begin again to tread that 
round? He would not. He sprang up and, walking 
blindly forward, took down the first book that came 
under his hand. He glanced at it and returned it 
256 


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to the shelf. No, that would not do. He deliber- 
ately sought for a special book which it was his 
duty to read and compare with his own notes made 
recently. 

Found, he examined it slowly, and returning with 
it to his chair, sat down. Strange that in the very 
first chapter he should have found something bear- 
ing upon a vexed point in his unfinished book. Very 
interesting, this. He turned to his desk, pulled for- 
ward a block of paper and a pencil and began to 
read. He read until his lamp failed him, dying down 
to a pale flicker which fitfully lighted a narrowed 
space, but left the busts of great men set high above 
him, remote in a pallid sphere. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


Constance was alone in her sitting-room knitting 
with a tranquillity won from a restlessness faced and 
conquered. Knitting had become a gentle art in her 
hands, since the day when she had first taken it up 
in the leisure moments of her settlement work in 
Boston as a compromise with her conscience which 
would not allow her to be idle. Strangely, yet nat- 
urally, the self-contained nature of the woman had 
found relief in the soothing of the mechanically 
moving needles, and on many a day since she had 
worked her own unacknowledged restlessness into 
smooth rows of even stitches, until her mind was 
serene. She could knit and read. She could knit and 
think, as she was doing to-day. She spent many 
hours alone, since, when all was done that she had 
to do in Tacitus, much time still remained. But 
she was never bored. The keeping of her house, 
where all breathed a fine orderliness, gave her pleas- 
ure, and her interest, tinged with unmalicious hu- 
mour, was very real in all the lives around her. 

Yet there were days when the romances of Lillian 
and David, of the schoolmaster and Milly wearied 
her, — when the tragi-comedy of Maria Beebe’s 
widowhood and late passion for Mr. Tanner failed 
to raise a compassionate smile, — when even the 
loveable oddities of the preacher exasperated, — 
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when, in fact, she missed the companionship of her 
own class and kind, — when, too, she poignantly 
realised what her own demands on life had been 
and that they remained unfulfilled, — when she 
told herself, with an ironic smile, that her own story 
was all preface, yet instantly assured herself that 
the preface is the best part of many a story. Per- 
haps, in her just perception of life, she drew a modest 
comfort from the knowledge that her serenity, her 
encouragement to the dull and shy, her tender, 
reserved sympathy, and her practical common sense 
had made her influence felt in that Tacitus at whose 
limitations her spirit had impatiently groaned. 

To-day, her open book neglected, Constance had 
constrained her fingers to soothe away rebellion. 
They had so far succeeded that her thoughts had 
gone their round and were now centred upon Jean 
Dimmock. A second autumn was here and again 
her return was postponed. She did not understand 
the girl’s prolonged stay abroad. The ostensible, 
quite plausible reason was, of course, her music. 
Yet Constance found an absence of enthusiasm in 
Jean’s letters which did not accord with a desire 
for further study. Jean had briefly announced that 
she was staying, that she would go in for the prize 
at the Conservatoire, but only awakened to some 
show of interest in a second winter’s amusement. She 
insisted, rather unnecessarily, Constance thought, 
upon the prospect of gaiety, explaining her double 
advantage in knowing both the student set and the 
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set to which she had been introduced by Frances 
Gray. She declared the contrast piquant. She 
wrote amusingly. Yet while Constance smiled over 
her remembered sallies, she felt a lack of heart in 
them which puzzled her. What a lonely child it was 
when all was said and done. How little she knew 
Jean — how little, probably, any of them knew of 
the real Jean. Of that Jean who had grown up there 
among them — who was alone and away. She 
shivered slightly and looked up. Maria Beebe, 
who, the village agreed, set a correct standard of 
woe to all future Tacitus widows, was passing, 
dressed in deep black, hugging two pots of flowers. 
Constance remembered that it was Saturday and 
Mrs. Beebe’s week to “do the church.” Constance 
gazed at her. Was it only the hard, the selfish, the 
self-seekers, who won their hearts’ desire? Her mind 
jumped to John Erskine. He was a man who was 
baulked of his — if a face spoke the truth. Yet — 
what did he want? 

Some one else passed. Again she looked up. It 
was Mr. Tanner. The tall, lank young apothecary 
was hastening churchward after Mrs. Beebe, and 
there, coming up the steps, was John Erskine. 

She quickly rolled up the knitting, laid it away, 
rose, and turned with her calm air of poise to meet 
him. He thought, as he entered, that she never 
looked hurried or awkward or uncertain. 

“You’ve heard the news, I suppose?” he said 
sardonically as he sat down. 

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She smiled expectantly. “No.” 

“What your prescience foretold. The widow an- 
nounces her approaching marriage.” 

“Oh, that!” she said, with an accent of distaste. 

John laughed. “Oh, I suppose that poor Tanner 
in his store clothes is more to her than we can see. 
That ambush of colourless locks is ambrosial, that 
high, narrow forehead intellectual, that weak 
mouth and chin, refined. He is not a bad apothe- 
cary, but I hear that she is going to put him in 
charge of the store.” 

“Poor woman.” She spoke with constraint. 
“It’s pathetic. It's all pathetic, our constant striv- 
ing after some ideal. And my ideal is funny to you, 
and your ideal is funny to some one else. Can’t 
you see her, poor thing, absurdly in love, asking in 
her hard middle age for what she never wanted in 
her youth?” 

He shook his head. “You see Maria weeping over 
the irony of life — the vanished years — the love 
that has come too late. She’s too self-complacent. 
She never would.” 

She smiled, unconvinced. 

“You are sorry for her!” he exclaimed. “But I 
am sorry for him.” 

“ Poor both of them,” she declared. “ Either way 
it’s pitiful, yet they will only seem ridiculous.” Her 
tone dismissed the subject. “And you’ve been here 
five minutes and I have not thanked you for the 
paper you sent me. I read the review aloud to father 
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and we were both delighted with the appreciation 
they give the book. Miss Roxina must feel now 
that your evenings were well spent. She was a little 
jealous when you moved your writing to the office.” 

“Yes — both she and Martha thought they had 
a grievance. But I did some good work there.” 

“I know that we saw very little of you. Jean 
must be delighted about the book. She used to be 
so proud of helping you. I had a letter from her 
yesterday. She is a clever child.” 

“What did she say?” His head was bent. 

Constance laughed. “I think I must read you a 
bit. It is so delightfully young and egotistic.” She 
took the letter from a case on the table and, sitting 
down, ran through a page or two before she began. 
“ People seem to find me either dull, odd, interesting, 
or clever ! Clever is the latest ! One man, who cannot 
make head or tail of me because he is always trying 
to find things in me which are n’t there, comes to 
call, and I sit him in a chair and see how much 
nonsense I can talk to him and have him still think 
it sense. For example, he is very fond of music, so 
I explained to him a theory which does n’t exist. 
At first he could n’t, he said, understand, but now 
he says he does and he makes up better stuff than 
I can on the subject. I said that music did n’t con- 
vey colour but shape to me(!) He said he saw 
meadows, ladies, babbling brooks. I said that was 
nothing, that every one sees that; that, accord- 
ing to my theory, for instance, the sound of the 
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Pilgrims’ Chorus in ‘Tannhauser’ was all round, 
whereas the bird’s song in ‘Siegfried’ was like a 
bowl full of marbles and the fire-song like many 
jets of water in a fountain, etc. (A little of this is 
sense, I think.) Well, before I had finished, he was 
seeing snakes in the ‘Dead March,’ triangles in 
‘My Country, ’t is of Thee,’ and pentagons in 
‘Come over Here.’ Believing it all, too, and sally- 
ing forth to spread my theory to the world. I told 
him that if you had a quick enough ear, the shadow 
of the clouds by moonlight rustled.” She laid down 
the sheets and looked up, laughing. 

John Erskine did not smile. “And while all this 
is going on, where’s the chaperone?” he asked drily. 
“I hope that Baroness von Mintzel is a proper per- 
son. She had excellent recommendations.” 

“Of course she is,” Constance hastened to assure 
him. “Marian knew all about her. After all” — 
she touched the letter — “this is quite harmless 
nonsense and Jean is n’t a child. She is nineteen!” 

“Yes,” he agreed. “We men forget these things. 
Nineteen — Jean nineteen!” He laughed. “And the 
first day that I saw her in this room — ” He broke 
off abruptly. “Pardon me. I must be growing old. 
May I see your father? Without disturbing him?” 

“On the contrary, father would n’t forgive me if 
he missed you. You know his latest interest?” 

“His garden. Owens told me.” 

“A classic garden. They are doing it together. 
He is there now. Shall we go out?” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


As John Erskine came down the steps from the 
parsonage he saw Rufus Haines and Milly Levis 
crossing the square. Even at a distance they had an 
air of young and confident happiness. That air of 
riding upon the crest which is all oblivious of any 
sequential break of the wave. 

John Erskine turned abruptly away. They would 
without doubt wish to assail him with thanks. He 
had helped them in their search for a mating nest 
by renovating an old house towards which they 
were now doubtless taking their daily pilgrimage. 
They were to be married shortly and were endlessly 
occupied with the details of preparations. The 
house where they were to live had for them a sweet, 
mysterious, irresistible charm. They could hardly 
keep away from it. And since Dr. Erskine was part 
of it, in his quality of god in the car, they rushed 
at him whenever they had an opportunity, bubbling 
with very youthful, pretty gratitude. But thanks 
was the one thing the doctor could not tolerate. 
He snubbed them with a calm word ; that it was no 
kindness to them but an investment for himself — 
which was not true. And as they knew it, they con- 
tinued to be warmly grateful, not possibly under- 
standing his irritation. 

Any place where a man has lived _all his life 
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becomes filled with the power of evoking from the 
subconscious depths of his memory a succession of 
vivid impressions — and as John Erskine walked 
on along the street his actual thoughts were backed, 
as it were, by flashed memories which he hardly 
realised. 

Direct and bitter were his thoughts of Jean. She 
could write like that, with such gay freedom, while 
to him her letters were laboured, brief, constrained. 
There was the hurt. Added to it was bitter jeal- 
ousy of all the unknown in her life. Yet while these 
matters held the forefront of his mind, his feet led 
him past the church and there he saw his father 
slowly descending the grey, weather-beaten, wooden 
steps — saw the old doctor raise his hand in the 
familiar gesture of salute to the village people — 
saw the kindly, handsome, clean-shaven face, 
stamped already by the melancholy of disease. The 
vision was so usual that John did not give it more 
than a side-long recognition and the clashing 
thoughts rang on through his brain unquieted. He 
turned to the left down the hill, unjust in his bitter- 
ness to the grown Jean, while there before him the 
little Jean gathered cress in the water that over- 
flowed from a small, mossy tub under the big elm 
tree. He walked on unmoved by her familiar shade. 
At Lower Street he glanced at the small yellow 
house which his money had made whole. He saw 
himself prone upon the step, a five-year-old in the 
grip of humiliation, and noticed that Milly had put 
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up white muslin curtains in the front windows. He 
took a secret interest in the house. 

Happiness seemed to come so easily to these peo- 
ple, — a new bathroom, two stationary washtubs, 
the marriage service, and they were in paradise. 
Not impossible of achievement — yet impossible. 

John went over the bridge and out along the 
country road which Jean’s runaway feet had 
pressed. He did not like walking. It was, to him, 
a waste of time. He was on the road so much that 
leisure was spent in his house and garden. Yet this 
afternoon movement was a necessity. He could 
not yet go home. Why should he go home at all — 
the burden was too heavy — why bear it? Why 
remember, when forgetfulness might be bought? 
He walked on rapidly. No, he had not realised the 
lack of intimacy, the loss of the personal touch in 
her letters to him, till that page gave her to him 
suddenly — the old Jean, so sure, outwardly, of 
herself and of her relation to her world and all in it. 
Outwardly sure; yet he had known her inward 
doubts, the sensitive misgivings, the shrinkings 
which she bulwarked by her valiant front. No one 
could know her as he knew her. He defied that fool, 
whom she sat upon a chair, to know her. With the 
lover’s passion, with the man’s instinct of covetous 
segregation, he mistrusted every other male who 
approached her. It seemed to him a profanation 
that any one should look upon her. And she was 
there, all the miles beyond his guarding, alone for 
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all the world to see, to covet, to adore. The thought 
was intolerable, yet to be borne — this he must not 
forget — as his punishment. Days and hours of 
pain, of hopeless loneliness, all went to that — to 
pay — to pay — 

He spurned the idea of any comfort. There was 
none anywhere — life became suddenly, acutely, 
unbearable. He walked like a drunken man, blind 
with despair, his feet uncertain. Work — he had 
proved it — was an anodyne only. There was no 
end to this misery of body and of mind. Where 
could he look for any help, when in the depth of his 
soul there was a lie? He groaned aloud. Was he 
not free to act as he would? Was he not free of 
ancient superstition? Was he not a modern? Had 
he not brought back from across the sea the belief 
of the nineties in the right of the individual? With 
his education, his intellect, his position, had he not 
a right to act as he believed to be best? He did not 
say “ right.” Had he not plucked his soul from the 
cradle of an outworn faith and hugged it in the 
arms of his own pride? Could it be starving for 
want of the old sustenance? Was he dependent on 
more than mental fare for spiritual health? His 
thoughts beat vainly, seeking rest. Somewhere 
there must be something that could help. He looked 
up to the cold autumn sky. It gave no answer. 
If only he could escape from this life, from the fam- 
iliar sights, — people, duties, — and fight a way to 
surety. The cold sky, steely above him, the bare 
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trees, the iron-bound earth, gave him no sympathy. 
God was not to be come at so easily. He had a vision 
of the woods, of winter alone in a camp on North 
Lake, where he had been as a boy, with only the 
guides and the trappers near. But he knew, as 
quickly as the vision came, that place could not help 
him to peace. Every man must seek and find truth 
in himself — God in himself. The silence of waste 
places may make the search easier, but the triumph 
is greatest in the crowd. There is seldom a with- 
drawal which is not a shirking as well. Tempted to 
have done with work, with the dull round of duty, 
tempted to seek his soul afar, John Erskine turned 
back, like little Jean years before, to Tacitus. 

As he entered the house, Martha met him. 

“Wherever have you been, Mr. John?” she cried. 
“And a call here for you for the last half-hour.” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


John lived out the winter doggedly. It was the 
dragging, cruel winter of the North. He drove day 
after day through a world blank with snow, snow 
weighing down the low sky, snow blotting out the 
familiar details of the way, snow filling the air with 
its silence, muffling all sound, seeming to arrest 
hope, to set a limit to infinity, to stifle all life in its 
remorseless hold. 

Journeying along some hardly broken track, 
where his eye found only a frozen horizon, John 
experienced a physical depression, in which mind 
and spirit had a part. There were days when he 
had a curious feeling that he was dead already, and 
roused himself to prove that life and energy were 
with him still. On other days he simply accepted 
this dulled and frozen level of existence as all that 
he could claim, and drove from farm to farm on his 
long round in a grim endeavour to get through it 
piece by piece, to plod on, as well as he could, to 
what sombreness of waiting future he could not 
know. His mind on these endless drives was busy 
with the past, working out a chain of consequence 
resultant, as he harshly told himself, from his own 
inherent weaknesses. There was a comfort in this 
bearing of a deserved penalty which he recognised. 
No one but himself could know the true John 
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Erskine; the man whose pride was his idol — the man 
who had forsworn the God of his fathers for the 
freedom of an agnosticism which pandered to that 
pride, the man who had set his reason higher than 
his spiritual instinct, the man who, when this was 
done, proved the weakness of reason as a guide of 
life, by living a lie. Tracing back effect to cause, he 
clearly saw that the pride in abstract principles of 
right which he had vaunted was in the dust, and in 
his heart, stirring in his mind, were the promptings 
now to reach, through that doubted higher spiritual 
force, to truth. Who should say that reason was a 
surer guide than this same spiritual instinct? Yet 
with the fin-de-siecle pride of freedom, dread of 
superstition, thirst for proof of truth — as if truth 
could ever be proved or needed human proving — 
he still rebelled, held a brief for himself against 
himself, stooped to ask if the lie were not best, after 
all ; and so returned from the bleakness of the open 
to the village which had the look of a prison-house 
to him. 

There the angles of eave and roof tree were rounded 
with the depth of snow, which, carried by its own 
weight, fell from time to time with a dull rush and 
thunder, unused doors were clamped by steely 
ice, cottage windows were glazed by a film which 
darkened the rooms within. Every twig of bush and 
tree was held by a load of snow or sheath of ice, 
and the trunks, to the north, were whitely crusted. 
Black ice, and solid, filled the watering- trough. 

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Called abroad at night, John Erskine dreaded 
going out into this world lying in bondage. Again 
and again that year did spring strive to break those 
bonds and bring back reviving hope to man. But 
again and again the north wind whirled down from 
the forests, and with fury of storm winter was rein- 
stated and prolonged. 

John Erskine had, moreover, reached that stage 
in his relation to Tacitus when people begin to take 
for granted services which once won a stir of grati- 
tude and commendation. He told himself that they 
were an ungrateful lot who accepted any sacrifice 
of his time or strength as their due; and as every 
mental state is bound to find unconscious expression, 
his manner became less kind, less friendly, even 
tinged with suspicion and constraint. This, in its 
turn, was reflected in the bearing of individuals 
towards him and awoke hurt resentment. People 
detected a new moroseness in the doctor’s bearing 
and, as little charitable to a benefactor in Tacitus 
as anywhere else, whispered various reasons for the 
change. Constance, catching an echo of the talk, 
gave an indignant denial, while she reluctantly 
repeated her own inward questionings. What was 
the past that shadowed him ? What pain had set 
its seal on him? What hunger burned in his eyes? 
Whatever the story, she told herself, she could 
understand. Whatever his sorrow, her sympathy 
was ready. Yet, in his presence, she knew that no 
opportunity would ever be given for her help. They 
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sat within a yard of one another isolated and ma- 
rooned. 

The floods that swept the whole country that 
spring carried away a town. Men’s minds were 
darkened for a moment by the horror, yet every 
one went gladly about his own business in the grate- 
ful sunshine. So it is meant to be. 

Constance, conscientious, felt uneasy at her delight 
in the open windows, the soft air, the bowl of spring 
flowers on the table. She spoke the thought to John. 

“It seems almost wrong to be so happy when 
you think of the suffering.” 

“I don’t follow you. All nature is brutal. The 
world is built up on progressive suffering.” 

“But the suffering is for some right end.” Her 
tone was quiet. She was very sad for him. 

“You think so?” He laughed almost rudely. 
“Then you’ve never suffered.” 

“Oh, but I have.” She was earnest. “And suf- 
fering brings strength.” 

“Does it? Well, I have suffered,” he looked at 
her for one instant, revealing to what depths. “And 
I have no strength. I am beaten — hardened, em- 
bittered.” 

“Hard! Only to yourself.” The words rushed 
out, her heart beating. “There is no bitterness in 
you for the people who turn to you for help.” 

“I’d like to wring their necks,” he declared. 

“No, no,” she insisted. “You must allow me to 
know after all these years.” 

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“All these years — good Lord — And at twenty 
I thought that forty would see some good work 
done — so twenty always thinks, I suppose.” 

“Blessed be twenty,” she declared gaily. “It 
is a glorious time. The arrogance of twenty! — All 
or nothing. You break your brushes, and tear up 
your sonnets, and close your] piano, because you 
discover that you are not a genius. You cannot 
tolerate a second-best. All or nothing ! ” She smiled. 
“At thirty we open the piano quietly and are very 
glad for the comfort. But you have no such cause 
for complaint. Your work abroad, your books, 
have brought you note and you ’ve done such a lot 
here — ” 

“Bosh!” he said abruptly. “But, my friend, it 
simply does not count. I have scratched a mark 
where I hoped to hew a path.” 

“Why don’t you go on?” she asked deliberately. 

“ I cannot.” His voice was curt. “ It is no longer 
possible. I may smoke?” He put his hand in his 
coat pocket and drew out a handful of letters with 
his pipe. “Oh, I quite forgot. They gave me these 
just now at the post-office.” He looked at them. 
“Two for you and one for me. From my sister, 
Nina Mackenzie.” He stared at the bold hand, the 
London postmark. Jean was there with her. 

“ Read it,” Constance begged. “ I have not heard 
from Jean since she went to England.” She opened 
her own post. 

John rose and walked to the window. Her own 
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letters were finished, and yet he stood motionless 
and she noticed there was no rustling of a turning 
page. He finally moved, slowly faced her, and she 
saw that he had the helpless, dazed look of a man 
who has received a blow. 

“ 1 Jean is engaged.” His voice was uncertain. 

“ Little Jean!” She rose slowly. 

“Little Jean!” His voice was reckless. “Little 
Jean would laugh at us. She is one of the toasts of 
the season. She is making a great match.” 

“What else could you expect?” Constance spoke 
indignantly, springing to the absent girl’s defence. 
His tone was not to be borne. “Did n’t you keep 
her abroad for that? Oh, I can’t understand you. 
What else could she do? It is n’t her fault. There 
was always the other side to Jean. She wanted the 
heights.” 

They faced each other, moved and shaken. 

“You don’t understand,” he cried. “You can’t 
understand.” 

The door opened and Mr. Savage peered in with 
his near-sighted eyes. 

“Ah, I thought I heard voices. Erskine, I am 
about to plant in Tacitus a piece of wild thyme 
which sprang on the slopes of Parnassus!” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


Soft spring air, drifting clouds, sunshine, and the 
rush of the creek in flood whispered surely to ’Bijah 
Bullock’s simple mind of a lob worm on a hook at 
the end of a line and a hickory pole. No one in 
Tacitus knew as well as he the ways of fish or furry 
things. The hut on the edge of the sand-dunes when 
the winter was past became for him only a place 
to sleep. He lived out of doors, doing odd chores 
in the village at times, but was generally to be found 
with a crust in his pocket, haunting the woods and 
streams. 

The catastrophe which had troubled Miss Sav- 
age to-day had no deterrent effect upon ’Bijah’s 
pleasure. He shambled off with his loose-jointed 
gait, which looked slow because awkward, yet which 
could be so swift, to cut a new fishing-pole and to 
look for bait. The woods, as he plunged into their 
depths on the far slope of Mount Eliza, greeted him 
with the first earthy, pleasant smell of early spring. 
He sniffed it with the keen nostrils of the woods- 
man. He recognised unconsciously in it all the com- 
ponent perfumes and pungencies. Here, beneath 
the hickory scrub, piercing the litter of dead autumn 
leaves, wind flowers swayed on delicate stems, a 
fairy band, tremulously responsive to the faintest 
breath. ’Bijah Bullock had no sentiment about 
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flowers. His big foot crushed a dozen of the pale 
blossoms at a step. Where he stopped to cut his 
stick, a clump of purple hepaticas, nestling in their 
heart-shaped leaves at the foot of the tree, was 
rudely bruised by his foot. He was a savage. Nat- 
ure was only to him the harbourer of animal life. 
He cut the pole with his big jack-knife and tramped 
away through a little glade, where in the moisture 
of the hillside spring the ground was splotched by 
the beautiful leaves and yellow heads of dog-tooth 
violets. He went plunging on ruthlessly, crooning 
to himself, towards the creek. 

’Bijah knew well every secret of his craft. He 
knew, besides the village gardens, in just what low 
meadow to tap with his stick and reap a rich har- 
vest of emerging worms. He travelled there now 
and filled his bait-box easily. 

He returned then to the road. It was the quickest 
way to reach that point on the creek which he longed, 
itched to fish. His mind was busy with the chances 
now. Flood meant thick, troubled water with plenty 
of food for fish — fish feeding on the bottom — fish 
swept from their usual beds — another big fellow — 
a three-pounder, perhaps — carried in, as in last 
year’s freshet, under the big bank at the big pool 
at the bend of the road. Already in imagination 
’Bijah saw the fish lying sulky, deep in the murky 
water, hardly moving, tempted by the worm which 
sank and wriggled so naturally near his nose, saw 
the open mouth, then the swift rush of the fish, and 
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the skill with which he would land him. Not im- 
probably he would have to work around from the 
high bank keeping his line taut, and land him on 
a sandbank below. A landing-net was an unknown 
article to ’Bijah. Small fish he hoicked out. 

Arrived at the creek, he stood for some time 
astonished at the quantity of water coming down. 
It was higher than even he had ever seen it. The 
torrent came down in a swirling flood, tossing its 
jetsam of log and branch out in the current, while 
here at the bend it swept steadily round, forming a 
deep, eddying pool of smooth black water. Under 
this bank, undercut by the current, lay the fish. 
Trembling with eagerness, he dropped his pole on the 
ground, produced a stick wound with line from his 
pocket, with a tin box of fish hooks and sinkers and 
gave himself up with devotion to the rite of prepar- 
ing his tackle. When his rod was equipped to his 
satisfaction, he crept forward to the edge of the bank 
and peering over, thrilled with excitement, he care- 
fully lowered and sunk his worm. 

His most sanguine expectations had not pre- 
pared him for the instant rush which caught his 
line, the rush of a big fish and strong current. He 
felt his line going — tried to recover it by a jerk, 
the bank gave way, and with a howl the boy found 
himself thrown into the water. His poor skill in 
swimming yet kept him afloat. But all around him 
the yellow clay bank, scooped out, rose smooth, 
giving no finger-hold. Battling with feeble strokes 
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to keep himself afloat, he was caught by the current 
and swept out into the stream, just as John Erskine, 
who, passing, had sprung from his motor at the 
boy’s despairing shout, reached the shore. 

For a second, casting off shoes and coat, John stood 
upon the bank, then, with a heartening hail, he ran 
along the bank and, calculating distance and angle, 
he plunged into the flood some yards below the point 
where ’Bijah was being whirled along. The water 
was very cold. John struck out for the middle of 
the creek, with the intention of seizing the boy as 
he was swept past him. It had all been the work of 
an instant. He had rushed to the rescue with a 
man’s unthinking instinct. But now, as he felt the 
press of the water, the strength of the current, and 
saw the mass of half-sunken debris which it carried 
he realised the danger of his undertaking. For a mo- 
ment he felt fear. In the next, he had faced and con- 
quered it, and his mind, unusually clear, was shout- 
ing orders to his body. He was swimming with 
precision, husbanding his strength, keeping an eye 
upon the boy who, spun about at the sport of the 
current, was yet being borne directly towards him. 
In a moment the boy’s shoulder, as he swept by, 
would be in his grasp. Now the sandy head was 
only a few yards away, when a sunken log striking 
a hidden rock heaved suddenly up between them. 
The boy was carried past on the other side and John 
caught a glimpse of his silly, blank, panic-stricken 
face through the skeleton branches. 

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Flinging himself upon the current with a grim 
and fierce determination to save that terrified 
rag of humanity that now outstripped him, John 
fought his way, losing a foot here, gaining a yard 
there, that white and stupid face always beyond 
his reach. It seemed years before he felt himself 
borne by an uplift of the current down upon the 
boy, who, with a wild clutch, seized him. There was 
a moment’s fight, then both went under. All that 
followed was confused to John, until he found him- 
self striking out for land, the boy’s limp body in his 
grasp. 

But the shore seemed miles away. His breath 
came tearing painfully through his lungs. He ached in 
every muscle. He was numbed by the cold. The pos- 
sibility loomed before him that he might not reach 
that absurdly distant shore — and flashing upon him 
came the exultant thought that here was no ignoble 
solution of the problem of living that had seemed too 
hard. Life unbearable, death had kindly offered. 
What bliss just to relax the straining muscles, to sink 
with his unconscious burden out of life ! Already his 
stroke had slackened, when clear came the goading 
reminder that to all that little world of Tacitus he, 
John Erskine, so unworthy of their faith, would die 
a hero’s death. 

“ Damn Tacitus,” he groaned, and striving, strain- 
ing, slowly, inch by inch he covered that stretch 
of water, he gained the bank. There, clutching the 
grass with a feeble hand, he was exerting all his 
279 


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exhausted energies to draw the boy out of the suck- 
ing current, when two strong arms from above came 
suddenly around them and, with the assurance of 
safety, he fainted. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


“An* they do say as how if Dave Donner an’ Lil- 
lian Vincent had n’t come drivin’ by just plumb at 
that minute an’ second, Dr. Erskine would ’a’ been 
a goner. He’d just reached the bank with ’Bijah, 
but he was so exhausted he could n’t crawl ashore 
when David — he ’d seen the automobile standin’ 
empty — gives a leap out er the buggy an’ down he 
goes an’ lifts ’em both out jest in time.” Thus Miss 
Meeks. 

“ You don’t say ! ” Maria Beebe for once in her life 
was too much interested in her own affairs to give 
more than half an ear to gossip. She was ‘‘trying 
on,” — • always a lengthy, absorbing process, even in 
Tacitus. “ I don’t know which I like best. The trim- 
min’ straight or slantin’, Laura.” 

“An’ it was on the way back that David asked 
her to marry him. An’ about time I say. Not that 
her mother thinks he’s half good enough. But I 
think he ’s a good-looking young feller — an’ his 
hair’s as black — ” 

“Yes, I know,” Maria interrupted. “ But ’s long ’s 
you’re here to sew for me, Laura Meeks, I wish 
you’d pay attention. Now, tell me here, this way 
or that? Which makes me look the slimmest?” 

Miss Meeks rose, her nose red with annoyance. 

“Neither,” she said acidly. “You can’t expect 
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to look slim, Maria, at your age. I ’d have fulness 
in the back o’ that hobble skirt, too, if ’t was me.” 

“ I did n’t ask your jedgement an’ I ’ll thank you 
to keep it till it’s asked. Hobble or no hobble, it’s 
the fashion. Goin’ with Mr. Tanner to N’ York an’ 
Niagara I ’ve got to be in the fashion.” She paused. 
Then, looking up anxiously, “Haven’t I, Laura?” 
she appealed. 

“ I s’pose so,” the dressmaker agreed. An obscure 
pity for her friend pierced her envy. “I ’low you 
kin have it more sense an’ less hobble an’ still look 
fashionable,” she declared. “I’ll fix it — an’ the 
trimmin’ straight.” Scanning the silhouette in the 
glass, Miss Meeks stiffly knelt to deal with the deli- 
cate problem before her. 

“Well,” Maria declared, watching the other in 
the glass, “I know Tacitus, Laura Meeks, like the 
inside o’ my pocket. I s’pose the whole village can’t 
talk o’ nothin’ else.” 

“ I guess not,” Miss Meeks agreed with animation. 
“There’s a knot o’ men talkin’ at the store. An’ 
Mr. Owens tellin’ ’em it would ’a’ paid ’em well out 
ef the doctor’d been took after the way they’ve 
been jawin’ this winter ’bout him. Old Owens, he 
can give it to ’em when he gits started. Mr. Tanner 
was gittin’ the p’int o’ the discourse when I left 
’em.” 

“Joey?” Maria’s face turned crimson. “Joey?” 

“ I did n’t exactly gather what for. But the 
preacher was givin’ him a lot o’ jaw ’bout gratitude. 

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An’ the schoolmaster was sayin’ hot things about 
them that has started libelling reports the past win- 
ter. An’ that Tacitus were n’t no place for them.” 

“ Don’t you think that’s too much fullness, 
Laura?” Maria’s voice was feeble. “Joey talks o’ 
sellin’ out the store, an’ if we live in N’ York or in 
Niagara I got to be in the style, ain’t I?” 

Miss Meeks stood off to study the effect. “Ef 
’t was me not a smitch would I take out o’ that 
skirt. In your position, M’ria, you kin afford to set 
the fashion — a little.” 

“I s’pose you’re right,” Maria agreed. 

There was silence for a moment, while Miss Meeks 
once more carefully adjusted folds. “ They ’re talkin’ 
of a testimonial, an’ a public meetin’, an’ I don’t 
know what else,” she burst out. “ Everybody’s 
kinder ashamed, I guess, the way they been think- 
in’ !” 

“ I did n’t know the creek was so deep and dan- 
gerous,” Maria cavilled. 

“Well, don’t you say that outside this room, 
M’ria Beebe. Even I can tell you that it is. It’s a 
roarin’ flood. Just you go an’ have a look. All the 
boys in the village been down inspectin’ of the place 
this mornin’. They ’re sayin’ free that no other man 
in Tacitus could ’a’ made it but the doctor. There 
— now I call that skirt decent — not so French, 
maybe, but chick all the same. Take it off an’ let 
me get to work.” She sat down in the sewing-chair 
by the window, the waist in her hand, and while 
283 


SHIFTING SANDS 

Maria extricated herself from the skirt she con- 
tinued : — 

“ Miss Savage come by while I was waitin' ’round. 
She an’ Mr. Owens seem to have an understands ’ 
all right, shakin’ hands, an’ talkin’ an’ smilin’ an’ 
laffin’.” 

“She ain’t goin’ to ketch the doctor all the same.” 

“I ain’t sayin’ she was after him,” Miss Meeks 
rebuked. 

“You ain’t! An’ I’ve heard you say it ag’in an’ 
ag’in in this very room, Laura Meeks.” 

“Not serious. They’re real friendly, that’s all. 
Why, Mr. Savage is gettin’ old. They ’ll be puttin’ 
in a young man an’ Miss Savage’ll be goin’ back 
to Boston, marryin’ there. You mark my words.” 

“An’ you mark mine. She’ll never marry.” 

They glared at each other over Constance’s fate, 
the battle drawn. 

“ ’T ain’t everybody thinks continual o’ marry- 
in’!” Miss Meeks added tartly. 

“ ’T ain’t everybody as gits the chance,” Maria 
countered. “I don’t set much store by those tales 
o’ women what’s above men an’ matrimony. Those 
that gets the askin’ does the takin’, I’ll bet.” 

Miss Meeks sniffed. “To think o’ the chances 
I had when I was young. When we lived in that 
yeller house the doctor’s fixin’ up for Rufus Haines, 
I could ’a’ married a dozen times ef I’d wanted. 
That was before you set foot in this town. Those 
were the days.” 


284 


SHIFTING SANDS 

Maria was silenced now, as she always was, by 
Laura Meeks's reference to her fall in fortunes. 
Maria did not care to be reminded of her own early 
days. 

“Well,” she said propitiatingly, “you must have 
been a real good-lookin’ girl. You’ve got a good 
figure still. But Miss Savage is no beauty.” 

“No,” Laura allowed reluctantly; “only real 
pleasant-looking. Not a beauty like Jean Dimmock 
was. Did I tell you what I heard about her?” She 
paused. “Didn’t I? Why, I got it straight from 
the parsonage. You know over there where she was 
in Germany, some place, where she was studyin’ 
her music?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well. She was goin’ in for some kind of a prize, 
or somethin’. Anyhow she’s failed. An’ Dr. Er- 
skine’s sister, Evelina, — Nina they call her, — you 
don’t remember her — she was a high stepper — no 
looks, but a figger — who married an English lord. 
Well, she come an’ took Jean off to England. An’ 
she’s there now an’ she’s been there all the spring.” 

“Failed, did she?” Maria repeated. “Well, I 
can’t say as how I’m breakin’ my heart over it. 
Will she be cornin’ back here?” 

“I dunno. I’d like to see her clo’es. Do you 
recollect, M’ria, one black velvet dress she used to 
wear to church?” 

“Yes, spendin’ so much money on a plain thing 
like that was ridiculous.” 

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“ ’T was his sister in Boston who dressed her. 
The doctor never had no say, only to pay the bills. 
An’ every one knows that she ain’t dependent on 
him like that, anyway. She ain’t got much, but 
she’s got enuff.” 

“Well, I just tell you, Laura Meeks, I’ll be glad 
to get away from this place. It’s always Erskine — 
Erskine here. As Joey says, give me a city where 
you can see some life an’ meet congenial friends. 
An’ be independent. There, I’ve got this basted. 
Shall I try it on again?” 

Laura Meeks looked up. “There ain’t no need,” 
she said. “ Country things never do look right, any- 
way, in the city.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


When, unwilling to give his memory to an unmerited 
posthumous glory, John Erskine had refused to 
sink, but rather pushed for the land, it did not occur 
to him that once ashore with his burden, he must 
face an enthusiastic revival of popularity. 

David Donner had hauled them both out, un- 
conscious, from the shallow water, where, left, they 
would probably have drowned. Hence he, too, 
came in for a solemnly accepted share in the interest, 
if not the fame, of the occasion. And Tacitus, for 
a day, was forced to content itself with David and 
’Bijah as idols, for John Erskine did not appear. 
His proceedings on the morning after the occur- 
rence puzzled his family and the village at large and 
to this day no explanation of it has been vouch- 
safed to them. 

He came down to breakfast, showing in his face the 
marks of the physical ordeal through which he had 
passed. After an absent-minded meal, he rose sud- 
denly and, without a word to any one, went out. 
The next thing Tacitus knew was that the doctor 
had escaped them. Though Martha declared no 
call had come for him, he had, at the hour for morn- 
ing consultation at the office, motored swiftly out 
of their midst. 

He hardly understood his own action. He was 
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moved by an impulse, by an overpowering instinct. 
He hardly thought at all as the car sped away from 
Tacitus, covering the miles on the highroad to 
Attica. He only knew that he was impelled, driven 
on by a great hunger, a great desire. He held the 
car steadily on its way, thankful to feel the clean, 
sweet morning air sweeping past him. He recog- 
nised trees and farms and hills and bends in the 
road, all the familiar landmarks, with a fresh glad- 
ness. He even hailed the mean outskirts of the coun- 
try town with a new interest, seeing every detail 
with a keen eye. From the purlieus of Attica, the 
treeless streets of little houses, he rolled through 
wider streets of pleasanter dwellings, on to the broad 
avenue lined with the pretentious mansions of 
Attica’s elect. These all had “grounds” planted 
with clumps of trees, preferably cut-leaf maple, 
weeping willow and birch, copper beech, and other 
ornamental sorts, and boasted ornate iron vases 
and beds of early flowers. The houses all looked 
prosperous and comfortable and as if the people 
who lived in them were provided with every lux- 
ury — except imagination. 

Down this street John rolled, past the brown- 
stone American-Gothic Episcopal church, with its 
locked doors, past the square wooden Congregational 
church, with its high windows of ruby and amber 
glass, past the last residential building, where the 
dentist’s sign held its place in the bow window; on 
to the centre where red-brick and wooden office 
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buildings, banks and shops, bordered the busy 
pavements. Here trolleys clanged and motors met 
the farm wagons from the country. 

He threaded his way across this bustling square, 
and again ran into a poorer quarter not long built, 
housing the operators of the mills which gave the 
little city some fame and more wealth. His journey 
was nearly ended. He here ran the motor up to 
the sidewalk, stopped the engine, and jumped out. 
Heads craned out of the windows of the tiny red- 
brick houses. Two or three children playing in the 
street ran up to stare at the car. 

John, unconscious of the scrutiny, walked rapidly 
away, turned the corner by the iron lamp-post into 
the next street, and saw before him what he had 
come to find, a small brown church wedged between 
the poor dwellings, its small square belfry sur- 
mounted by a cross. The next moment, with a cu- 
rious feeling of excitement, he opened the door and 
entered. He was aware of an instant feeling of re- 
lief, of peace. The church was open; it was empty, 
and it was a consecrated place. He walked a little 
way up the aisle, turned into a pew and knelt down. 
He did not understand or seek to explain. He said 
no words, he formulated no thought; but he wor- 
shipped, he received. He did not pray. Gradually, 
however, as he knelt on, his head buried in his hands, 
the incongruity of his presence here obtruded itself 
on his mind. How strange that, having passed here 
once months ago, the little church should have leaped 
289 j 


SHIFTING SANDS 


to his memory, with an insistent invitation as soon 
as he had regained consciousness on the bank by the 
creek. He had opened his eyes to fatigue of body, 
but to no such weariness of life as had weighed him 
down through all the winter. He had been glad that 
he was alive, and vividly the small brown church 
had presented itself to him, filling him with an irre- 
sistible longing for the opportunity that it offered of 
peace and comfort. 

This desire, as strength returned, he had combated 
as unreasonable, fanciful. But this morning, freed 
from the fussy ministrations and anxieties of his 
womenkind, he had followed what he had begun 
to realise was a spiritual demand, and — here he 
was. He had, in coming, acknowledged the demand, 
acknowledged a need in himself. Well, and now, 
what would come of it? Could the strength which 
he had received here, and of which he was sensible, 
work any change in his life, in his outlook? Could 
it keep forever at bay the stalking black depression 
of the past months, satisfy the hunger that filled him, 
make bearable the failure of his hopes? In the back 
of his brain, as he asked the question, he knew where 
the trouble lay. But now, when Tacitus waited to 
acclaim him over again as their friend and saviour, 
when every man recalled some kindness he had done, 
when they glowed with a return of the old affection 
• — could he choo’se this moment to win peace for his 
soul by robbing them of their faith in him? 

The old torturings were his again. He rose 
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abruptly from his knees and saw, for the first time, 
that the figures on the altars were of coloured plas- 
ter; that the gilt vases were filled with paper flowers; 
that the whole effect of warmth and colour was won 
by means both cheap and tawdry. Yet it did not 
disgust him. The very inadequacy of this expression 
of adoration struck him as pitifully human. We 
would offer flowers of paradise, but our best are 
but poor, fly-blown imitations after all. 

He turned and walked down the aisle, feeling 
self-conscious and half-ashamed. This was really 
an extraordinary thing that he had done. What 
would his father have said? He had a vivid pre- 
sentment of the old doctor reading his “Tribunal” 
and growling against “Rum, Romanism, and Re- 
bellion.” At the door, he drew a leaflet from a box. 
He paused outside to read it. It was a printed ser- 
mon by an eminent churchman, proving conclusively 
and brilliantly what America would gain from the 
only possible religious unity in the embrace of the 
one Church. He tore up the paper and threw the 
bits into the street, hot with annoyance. He walked 
quickly back to the motor. It was God, not the 
Church, he sought. Yet with an instant interest 
he realised that to find God he had come to the 
church. It was a narrowing up that was in line with 
his later thoughts. He started the engine, buttoned 
his coat, and sprang in. The children stood and 
stared. Heads reappeared at the windows. He was 
glad to leave mean streets. 

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Crossing the square this time, he was hailed by 
the old judge, his father’s friend. John pulled up 
short. 

“Well, John, how are you? What are you doing 
here? Have n’t seen you for a long time.” 

John laughed. “I don’t know what I am doing 
here. It’s out of my beat.” 

The judge was a large, important figure: a man of 
influence. He nodded and vaguely waved the paper 
which he carried rolled in his hand like a baton. 
“That ’s right, my boy. Don’t get in a groove. Keep 
broadening out.” 

John looked at him keenly with a smile. 

“Well, sir,” he said, “I am beginning to think 
that the great thing is to be narrow. Regards to 
your daughter. Drive over to see us — ■ Cousin 
Roxina often speaks of you.” 

The car slid off and sped back through the pros- 
perous street. But there was no such peace on the 
return journey as there had been on the way out. 
Swift reaction followed a false exaltation. An in- 
stinctive joy in life triumphant over death, the 
equally instinctive impulse to thanksgiving, com- 
bined with he knew not what subconscious impres- 
sions of the little brown church, — these had sent 
him gladly on his way. 

Now, driving home along the familiar road he 
knew how fruitless had been the pilgrimage, how 
short his joy in living, how empty his thanks. “ Just 
to see the truth — and go for it,” as Jean had once 
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said, that alone he knew is worship, that alone is 
thanks and praise. 

He shivered back from the thought of what this 
demanded of his pride — Not yet — not yet. So he 
returned to Tacitus. 

A letter from Rufus Haines as chairman of the 
committee of arrangements awaited him at the 
house. In it John read that his fellow citizens, de- 
sirous of showing their regard and affection and their 
recognition of his services during the past ten years, 
as well as to testify their admiration of his heroism, 
were organising a meeting to be held in the memorial 
library the next night, when they hoped to present 
him with a small testimonial etc., etc. 

Rufus Haines had struck while the iron was hot 
and had shaken up the city fathers to good effect. 

That night, as the judge sat reading his paper by 
his fire in the library of his house in that prosperous 
street in Attica, his daughter near, he paused once 
or twice. 

“ Narrow?” he said to himself, “narrow?” He 
repeated it because John Erskine was, in his opin- 
ion, no fool. But as the evening passed he decided 
that his hearing must have been at fault. Was not 
the motto of his competent sons and well-read 
daughters the same, — “Be broad”? 


CHAPTER XXXIX 


When the evening train from Attica stopped at the 
small brown station of Tacitus that night, one pas- 
senger alighted, a girl whose air was so unlike that 
of the usual rural type that the new ticket-agent 
instinctively advanced along the wooden platform 
to meet her. She was tall and boyishly slim, wrapped 
in a long travelling-coat with a big dark fur collar, 
and, as she stepped into the light of the oil lamp 
affixed with a tin reflector to the station wall, her 
face was sweet and tender and gay. She was smiling, 
but her eyes were dim. 

“Is the bus here?” 

The man nodded, speechless. 

“My trunks — I shan’t need them to-night. 
Please send them down in the morning to Dr. 
Erskine’s. Good-night.” 

She disappeared round the corner of the building 
before the man realised that he had lost the chance 
of carrying her bag. 

Jean recognised with a thrill of absurd joy the 
unbeautiful shape of the old Tacitus bus, backed 
up as of yore with its door to the little platform. 
Swinging in her bag, she plunged head first into its 
black and empty depths. 

“There’s nobody else,” she called to the driver. 

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“Stop at Dr. Erskine’s. The gate, please/’ There 
was a tremor of excitement in her voice. 

The driver replied by an unintelligible sound, 
started his horses, and in a moment the bus with a 
squeak started towards the village. 

Jean, with every sense sharpened, listened eagerly 
for the remembered sounds. How well she knew the 
muffled stroke of the horses’ feet and the steady 
jingle of the bells. How she, as a child, had loved this 
drive in the dark, eyes shut, nestled against her 
mother, playing the game of guessing how far 
they were by the feeling. There — • the horses had 
slackened their pace, slow, plod • — plod — creak — 
creak — and tinkle — tinkle up the hill ; and now the 
brow of the hill reached, the vehicle seemed to re- 
cover itself and balance for a moment before the 
downward slope that led into Tacitus. Yes, the 
whip snapped, and again the quick jingle of the bells 
and the rapid trot told her that she was nearing her 
journey’s end. For an instant she wished that she 
had not come. She sat, frightened and small, in the 
corner of the bus as it slowed and stopped. She sum- 
moned her courage then, and jumped out, handed 
a coin to the man on the front seat, and, taking her 
bag, turned and entered the gate between the stone 
posts. There she stopped for a moment. It was a 
joy and yet a pain to find it all the same. If only 
it could show her that it had missed her a little ! 

The elms and locusts along the drive showed tall 
and leafless still in the light of the rising moon. Be- 
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fore her the lofty Doric pillars loomed grey — all 
within the porch was in darkness, no lights in the 
windows; only a gleam shone through the fan- 
shaped leaded pane above the front door. 

As she reached the foot of the steps, she paused. 
What had she done? How had she dared return? 
It was not really her own home — yet it was here 
that she had longed to be. She must go in. She 
mounted the steps lightly but resolutely, crossed 
the porch rapidly, turned the brass knob, opened the 
door, and stepped into the hall. Her heart was beat- 
ing furiously. 

She closed the door quietly and set down her bag. 
She saw thankfully that it was all unchanged. But, 
oh, suppose, now at the eleventh hour, something 
had happened? Suppose, since she had heard, that 
something had happened to him? Her hand at her 
side, to still her heart, she walked quickly to the 
door of the study and knocked softly. An intermin- 
able minute followed, crowded with all the fears of 
the world, before John Erskine’s voice answered, 
“ Come in.” 

For an instant she paused, then she opened the 
door, and stood looking into the room. He was 
seated with his back to her at his desk by the read- 
ing-lamp. 

“Well?” he said, without turning. Then, some- 
thing told him: the something that we yet have no 
name for. It came vibrating through the space 
that separated them, it struck heart and soul and 
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sense, and John Erskine knew that Jean Dimmock 
was there — not three thousand miles away as rea- 
son said. Though certain, he dared not move. He 
sat like stone, his hand on his head. 

“ Jean,” he said, and his voice was weak, “if you 
are there — speak.” 

“ I am here,” her own voice was breathless. 

He heard the door close softly. He understood. 
She had come home to tell him of this great engage- 
ment. Slowly, as if lifting a weight upon his shoul- 
ders, he rose to his feet, his hands clenched at his 
sides, and turned. She stood, with her back against 
the door. In her attitude was a curious mixture of 
humility and pride. She waited on his reception of 
her, he saw that. He saw the independent uptilt 
of the chin, the question in the level grey eyes; the 
little gay, tender smile upon her lips. She waited, 
and though he made no move, bound helplessly, 
his eyes spoke to her, and through an anguish which 
she did not understand, they welcomed her. 

“Jean!” The words seemed dragged from him. 

Laughing to keep back tears, breathless, she ad- 
vanced. His hand met hers, held hers firmly, held 
her a pace from him, yet near enough for her to see 
what this time had done for him, the stern seal 
it had set upon his face, the grey it had strewn 
in his hair. She could only cry with a break in her 
voice, “Oh, J.E. — oh, J.E.” 

But though the words quivered through every 
nerve, drawing the blood from his heart in a sicken- 
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in g wave and sending it beating to wrists and tem- 
ples, he held himself rigidly in hand. 

“Grown,” he said with a smile that seemed to 
twist his lips. “ I hardly know you.” 

As he said the words he felt that she was hurt. 
She withdrew her hands. 

“I must get out of these things,” she said, turn- 
ing away. “I am smothering! And Martha and 
Cousin Roxina — ” 

He followed her rapid, sure movements as she 
drew off her gloves and untied her veil, but despair 
struggling with passion in his heart kept him still. 
Now she was slipping out of the long, heavy coat, 
yet he did not move to help her. To have her here 
after the months, the years of sick longing, here, close 
to him, move lovely than she had ever been — the 
old Jean grown woman — To save himself dis- 
honour he turned to the door. 

“ I will tell them you have come.” 

The coldness of his voice, the constraint of his 
manner chilled her. He had not even asked her 
why, nor how, she had come. She stopped him. 

“No, let me go, please. Mayn’t I? I want to 
give them a surprise.” The colour had deepened 
in her cheeks. She passed him into the hall. 

The door in his hand did not quite close. He stood 
still and waited to hear the cry of joy from old Martha, 
followed by happy, inarticulate bursts of voices and 
laughter from the kitchen. Then Martha and Jean 
came out together and passed close by, old Martha 
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limping, Jean’s light footfall hurrying ahead to the 
stairs. He heard their voices, Martha’s first. 

“ You shall have some supper in a jiff, Miss Jean. 
There ain’t much in the house, but I kin scratch 
up somethin’. My, but ain’t you growed! What’ll 
Miss Roxina say! An’ you goin’ to be married to a 
lord.” 

The answer came distinctly. “I’m not going to 
marry anybody, Martha. I always told you that I 
should die an old maid. And here’s my clock — 
bless its heart. I’d like to hug it!” 

He heard old Martha’s shocked, pleased protest, 
then the swift rush of her feet up the stairs, a stifled 
burst of joy from above — and the door closed. 


CHAPTER XL 


“I don’t know as I understand yet how ’t is you 
are here,” Miss Roxina declared, as she and John 
sat in the dining-room while Jean ate the supper 
which Martha had proudly prepared. 

“ Nothing has ever tasted as good as this in my 
life,” Jean declared. She had no intention of ex- 
plaining anything. “You see, I just had to come,” 
she ran on. “You know, Cousin Roxina, you al- 
ways said that I acted first and thought afterwards. 
Well, that’s what I ’ve done this time.” She paused 
for a second. “You see, it was all rather a bore. 
Fun, of course. But such a crowd of people one 
did n’t care two pins for — and I got wound up in 
it. I was afraid that if I did n’t come suddenly I 
should never come at all. And I did n’t want that. 
So here I am ! I believe that ever since I went away 
I have been thinking of coming back, just like this. 
I used to think of you often when we were in Swit- 
zerland last Christmas. You remember I wrote to 
you about it. The bright sun and the sparkling air 
made me think of Tacitus. Oh, I thought of you 
much oftener than you know!” 

But Miss Roxina was not to be put off. “But 
what in the end made you come back just now? And 
why did n’t you write us? John would have met 
you in New York, would n’t you, Cousin John?” 

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“Oh, I thought you’d had enough of letters,” 
Jean answered hastily. 

John saw that the sparkle had died from her face. 
It looked strained and white. 

“You’re tired,” he said. He could not keep all 
the tenderness out of his voice. She shook her head, 
not trusting herself to speak. 

“There!” Cousin Roxina cried suddenly, “I don’t 
believe anybody’s told Jean yet about you and 
’Bijah — ” 

“Leave that, Cousin Roxina,” John broke in 
quickly, “for to-night.” 

The old lady acquiesced, talking garrulously now 
of village affairs, of the new maid who had come to 
wait on her and help Martha, of the electric light 
in the square and at the bridge, of Maria Beebe’s 
marriage, of Constance, trying to crowd all the news 
of the three years into an hour. Supper over, Jean 
went upstairs with her. 

“You and Cousin John will have a lot to talk over,” 
Cousin Roxina said. “ I guess he ’s impatient to hear 
about all the places you’ve been and the people 
you’ve met. He knows so much and he never has 
any one to talk to. So, go down, my dear. It is 
strange to see you so tall, in a long dress ! Now, good- 
night.” The old lady put up her face, but Jean 
threw her arms round her. 

“ Please don’t say that anything is strange. I ’ve 
been so homesick. I want it all just as it used to 
be.” 


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She stood still for a moment, straight and tall 
and grave, and then went out of the room and down 
to the study. She felt that she must go quickly or 
she would not have the courage to go at all. 

John heard her step and opened the door for her. 
In silence she crossed to the fire, followed by him. 

“I am cold,” she said. 

“How is Nina?” he asked perfunctorily. “And 
Mackenzie?” 

“Both dears and both well. Won’t forgive you 
if you don’t appear soon. Nice kiddies, too. Your 
namesake, little Jack, is a darling. May I smoke, 
J.E.?” She drew a cigarette from a tiny gold case. 
“Every one does there. You might as well learn 
the worst of me, you know.” 

He handed her a lighted match. “ It’s a question 
of convention,” he said stiffly. “There is no prin- 
ciple involved.” 

“That’s good of you!” she mocked, her head 
against the high settle-back. John was smoking his 
pipe, standing with his back half to her, gazing into 
the fire. “Awfully good of you. But you must n’t 
be too sure, J.E. Manners are a pretty sure index 
to morals, I find.” 

“Don’t,” he said sharply. 

“Why not?” Her voice was still mocking. “ You 
have shown me quite plainly that you don’t care 
what I do, J.E.” 

“ Care ! ” The word burst from him. “ Care ! What 
do you know about caring?” His voice was bitter. 

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“I do know,” she said. 

There was silence. Jean could hear her own heart 
beat. The cigarette was out. She was rigidly still, her 
eyes on the fire. “I do know,” she repeated. She 
was shivering now. The words came brokenly. “I 
— do — know — oh, J.E., can’t you see that I — • 
that I ’m not a child?” 

The man by the fire raised his head from his arm 
where he had rested it and straightened himself 
slowly. 

“This is horrible,” he said slowly, “horrible.” 
His voice was dead and toneless. He bowed his 
head again as if beaten. “ I could not have foreseen 
this.” 

“Foreseen this? Foreseen what?” she cried 
sharply. “Oh, J.E., what is it? What is the matter? 
I feel there is something. I think I’ve always felt 
it. Something that I don’t know. And now I’m 
sure of it. Oh, J.E., I can’t bear it. Tell me.” She 
sat forward, her hands strained together, gazing 
at him. But he did not move and the sight of his 
suffering shook her. Her voice became pleading. 

“ J. E., don’t turn away from me. Whatever it is, 
you can tell me.” Still silence and a doubt crept 
into the girl’s mind. She rose slowly. Her voice 
trembled with a hurt surprise. “Unless, J.E., you 
don’t want me, and I should n’t have come back.” 

She got no further. With a groan, John Erskine 
turned his eyes to hers. The yearning, the passion 
in them overcame her, turned her faint. 

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“Then, speak to me, J.E.,” she cried, “if it is n’t 
that , it’s something else. J.E., you must.” 

“No, it isn’t — that” he said, speaking with 
difficulty. He caught her wrists. “ I don’t want you 
away. I want you here — want you — * I love you. 
Do you hear?” He was gazing down into her face 
which seemed to melt and swim before his eyes. 
Holding her gaze which answered his, seeing the 
quiver of nostril and lips, as she swayed towards 
him, he yet held her sternly from him. “ No — no — 
you can come no nearer. You can never come nearer. 
Jean, listen and try to grasp it — ” 

He saw the face he loved blanch, but she did not 
move nor flinch. Then, slowly, each word falling 
into the strained silence, he ended. “I killed your 
father.” He dropped her wrists and turned from 
her. 

“Sit down,” he said briefly. 

She stood quite still for a moment, then turned 
mechanically and sat down upon the settle, trying 
to grasp the significance of his words, her eyes staring 
at the pattern of the old rug beneath her, blue — red 
— purple. It was still there. How funny that Cousin 
Roxina had wanted a new carpet, ages ago. How 
kind he had been to her that very day — that terrible 
day. And he had known. It was he, — oh, how was 
it he? Her mind, tortured by the pain of her heart, 
revolted, refused to harbour the idea. She had 
never been told any details — had never under- 
stood. She realised now that she had shrunk from 

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knowing — had been afraid to know some horror. 
This he had comprehended. Her father — a rush of 
tenderness for the parent she had loved but little 
filled her. A remorse that she had not mourned him 
better — a remorse like that which had seized her 
in the old arbour, born of imagination, shook her. 
Tears filled her eyes. J. E. had found her in the 
arbour and had brought her here. She had always 
liked the old rug. She mechanically followed the 
Persian pattern, tracing the colours — blue — red — 
purple — 

“Jean!” 

She started, shading her face. He stepped to the 
end of the settle and turned out the nearest lamp, 
leaving her in shadow, then returned to the space 
before the fire. Finally he forced himself to speak. 
His voice was controlled and even. 

“ I tried to spare you this. It is a long story, but 
I think you must hear — When I found out three 
years ago that I loved you — ” 

The girl leaned forward, suddenly alert. 

“Yes, when I knew that I loved you and feared 
that the very force of my feeling might awaken some 
answering feeling in you — I sent you away. I 
intended that you should not come back.” He saw 
the wearied tension of her slight figure. His voice 
broke. “ I must tell you — all. Try to bear it. Poor 
little Jean — poor little Jean!” 

“Don’t mind me,” she begged. “Go on.” 

“Had you married and never come back you 
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would never have known.” His voice was pleading. 
“You see.” 

She shook her head and her voice was broken 
with tears. “All that between you — and me — 
when you loved me. How could you — how could 
you, J.E. ! — oh, go on.” 

There was silence for a second. Then he contin- 
ued, his voice hard in his effort for control. 

“Yes, it must be done. Go back to your mother’s 
illness, please. She suffered from an obscure dis- 
ease. I was younger then, fresh from abroad. I 
gave her the best of my skill, but she died. I was 
baffled. I went to your father, my friend, and begged 
him to permit a post-mortem. He refused. He loved 
her. Perhaps now I understand better. She was 
buried. But the fame of her case had reached far. 
The clinic in Attica was not as scrupulous then as 
they have made it since. The fear passed through 
my mind, and I believe through your father’s, too, 
— that — ” He paused, frowning. “Well, no mat- 
ter. The night after your mother’s funeral I was 
called about midnight to go to the Bullocks — at the 
sand dunes — beyond the cemetery. Knowing that 
I must twice pass the gate of the cemetery and so 
keep a watch, I was glad to go. It was moonlight 
when I drove out and I could see that all was un- 
disturbed.” For the first time, realising the full 
significance of his words, Jean recoiled. 

“The woman was very ill — in great pain — and 
it was half-past one before I left their house. As 
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it had been bright moonlight when I started, I had 
no lamp on the buggy. It was black night when I 
reached the gate of the cemetery on my way back. 
It was open. I drew up in the sand which muffled 
the sound of my horse and wagon, and looked in. 
I saw a figure. I jumped out quickly and crept in. 
At the gate of the enclosure a man set upon me. 
We grappled, fighting and swaying, until I wrenched 
my right arm free and struck him with my full force 
with the loaded end of my whip. The man went 
down like a log. I drew out matches, knelt by his 
side, struck one, and looked. It was your father.” 

He did not notice that the girl, who had followed 
every word, fell back at the end with a sigh of relief. 
He stopped for a moment, then went on. “My mis- 
take, my weakness, was that I did not confess and 
give myself up at the time. It was one of those fatal 
moves that we cannot understand afterwards. But 
I persuaded myself that it was best for me to keep 
silence. I put aside the right. I knew that I had 
only acted in self-defence, that I had struck down 
a friend whom I loved, that I was not guilty, mor- 
ally, of murder. It was my infernal pride. My family 
and name and my own reputation were dear to me. 
I knew — as I know still — that, however upright 
a man may be, however guiltless of sin, such a story 
will brand him for life. There is always a taint. 
I could not face that. My silence would involve no 
one else, it could hurt no one, so I reasoned. But, 
believe me,” — he raised a shaking hand, — “every 
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lapse from truth is punished — not hereafter, but in 
suffering here. Through my silence I have met the 
death of my own hopes, of all that could make life 
dear to me — • in the loss of your love.” He turned, 
his head bowed. When he spoke again in a moment, 
it was in the voice of a man who can bear no more. 
“For God’s sake, Jean, go — leave me!” 

Often in the past three years he had lived through 
this possible scene, had felt her scorn, her horror, 
her reproach; had heard her words and borne her 
silence; had seen her, in either case, pass from his 
sight forever. But now, as she did not move, a new 
fear seized him. He looked up. She was sitting for- 
ward, her hands clasped, her still face strong, her 
mouth tense, but her eyes full of pity — yes, and 
love. 

He sprang to his feet. “ Don’t,” he cried, “don’t, 
don’t. You can’t understand.” 

“Oh, I do.” She was rising, coming towards him, 
but he stepped back, and she stopped, as she real- 
ised the possession of a fixed idea in his wild face. 

“Oh, J.E.,” she commanded, “be sane. What 
right had you to think anything? Oh, I can see how 
you have suffered. But I have suffered, too. You 
have suffered all these years — but I have suffered 
hideously to-night. But now it is over. Nothing 
stands between us. Can’t you see? You have broken 
the silence. There is only the blow — but you have 
atoned for that blow again and again, J.E.! Put 
your life since then in the balance against it — your 
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kindness to me, your devotion to the whole village. 
It far outweighs. Can’t you see? Oh, do be sane,” 
she implored. 

She took a step nearer. “ I have come back to 
you of my own free will. You sent me away. You 
did not ask me to come. And now I am here — and 
I understand it all, and I want to make up to you a 
little.” 

“A little,” he groaned. 

“For all that you have done for me, all that you 
gave up for others when you came back here to 
Tacitus, all that you have suffered since. Oh, J.E., 
I had to go abroad to realise it: to know what a 
temptation there must have been to you to stay 
there. But no, you came where you believed your 
duty lay, and now I have come back, too. Don’t send 
me away again. I cannot bear it.” Her voice broke. 

He turned away and sank down in the chair at 
his desk. 

“Jeanie,” he said groaning, “I must, I must. 
Don’t you see that I must? It never can be made 
right.” 

“Love can make all things right if you’ll let it!” 
She fell on her knees at his side. With a cry he drew 
her into his arms. She raised her face to him, but 
he pushed her aside, and fell on his knees beside 
her. “We must pray,” he said, “we must pray.” 

She felt the tension in the arm across her shoulder, 
and realised that her own suffering was as nothing 
compared with his. 

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They knelt together in silence. Then his arm 
slipped from her shoulder. They rose together. His 
face had won no peace. She laid her hand on his. 
He looked at her with eyes that hardly saw her. 

“Not yet,” he said huskily, “not yet. But I shall 
find a way. Don’t worry. I shall find a way.” He 
led her to the door. 

She lingered there a moment, her eyes full of 
fear. 

“ I hate leaving you. I am not afraid now of any- 
thing but separation. And there were things — I 
was afraid — ” She clung to his hand. “You have 
not asked me anything about anything.” 

“To-morrow,” he said. 


CHAPTER XLI 


The white hall was palely lit by a tall, old-fashioned 
oil lamp upon a table, as Jean came out from the 
study. Near the foot of the stairs the old clock 
ticked loudly, and, as she passed it, she saw that its 
hands were just short of midnight, and she paused 
as she reached the door of her room above to hear 
the clock strike the hour. Its voice had a deep and 
solemn significance in the silence of the old house. 
She told herself that it knew of her great happiness, 
shadowed though it was — and shared in it ; that it 
knew love to be a solemn thing as deep as the note 
it struck. 

She opened the door and shut herself into her 
room. A fire burned in the fireplace, its flicker light- 
ing the austerity of grey and white and blue. 

She stood now in her room, the room of her girl- 
hood, dazed, confused, by all that had been revealed. 
She was exhausted, shaken, yet uplifted. Sleep 
seemed impossible. The revelations of the night, 
John’s love for her, and the truth of her father’s 
death, singly enough to stir her to the depths of her 
nature, together almost stupefied her. Her feelings 
were strangely, inextricably mixed. There could 
be little of the joyous ecstasy of a young girl’s 
dream of love in this experience. She had left John 
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SHIFTING SANDS 


grave and troubled, the warp of his love for her 
darkened by the woof of remorse for her father’s 
death and for his silence. 

She walked across to the fire, her face pale, her 
grey eyes enormous. She shivered, though the room 
was warm. She was filled with a yearning passion 
of pity for the man whom she loved. What had he 
not suffered ! He, the soul of truth, under the weight 
of that secret all these years! The secret accident 
of a sin that was no sin — Now he had told her all, 
she would help him to forget and to be happy. But, 
as she affirmed this to herself, something within 
her questioned it. Could there ever be forgetfulness 
for him? — and without it, happiness? Must there 
not always be a lurking, hidden remorse in such a 
character as his which would prevent the fulness 
of joy to both? “Oh, it’s unfair — unfair,” she 
cried to herself in her pity. Yet the uncompromising 
streak of truth in her declared it to be fair. As he 
had said, a lapse from truth must bring its own 
punishment. No man may judge for himself when 
he stands before a fault committed, whether it be 
by accident or of intent, he must confess and bear 
the punishment meted by his fellows, or suffer his 
own condemnation. She tried to combat these 
thoughts with sophistries. Supposing he had con- 
fessed at once and given himself up? Her cousin 
would have taken her to that shoddy New York 
household with its religion of second-bests. J.E. 
saved her by his silence from that. Besides, she 
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told herself that death to her father had been more 
merciful than life without her mother. 

Yes, John had saved her from much, and in spite 
of him, she told herself, she would return her debt. 
She was too modern to question her own worth. She 
knew that she was lovely and talented and young, 
that she could hold the cup of life brimming to his 
lips. With a flush which swept her pale face she 
vowed that, in spite of himself, he should drink and 
find forgetfulness. 

Yet as she said it, sitting forward in her dressing- 
gown gazing into the embers, something in her 
mocked. She would have him hers, then, drugged 
by passion, dulled in his conscience by her beauty 
and her charm? No — no — she would not that. 
Rather share the burden with him, if burden there 
must be, than help him to its shirking. Once again 
the youth in her cried out for a care-free joy, an 
unshadowed happiness, but she answered it sternly 
enough. She had fled from pleasure, weary; now 
she must welcome pain. 

Pleasure! How she hated it! How she hated the 
weakness which had laid the fine pride of her maid- 
enhood at the mercy of the chance comer. The 
memory was unbearable. She had fled that for sanc- 
tuary here, where, in memory, life seemed almost 
ascetic. 

With a sudden shock she faced a question. Must 
she tell John Erskine? The answer was instant. 
All — nothing less than all. Would he understand? 

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Oh, if she had only told him to-night — but he had 
4 asked her no questions, given her no opportunity. 
Was he asleep yet? No — not yet. Surely, not yet. 
His face returned to her. She saw its settled look 
of patient endurance — then the torment, the hor- 
ror, and the fixed determination with which he had 
first met her pleading. Yet he had yielded to her. 
Was it in a moment of strength or weakness? How 
had she won? Had she won? 

She sat upright, seized by a sudden foreboding. 
Suppose he were alone, thinking it over? Suppose 
the doubts returned. Suppose! Ah! — suppose any- 
thing! Suddenly the room, the house, seemed filled 
with dread. She was cold with frantic fear. 

She sprang up, crossed the room in an instant, 
was out into the dark hall, down the stairs; the lamp 
was going out below, the intermittent blue flicker 
reflected palely on the wainscot. If the study door 
were locked! She turned the knob, it yielded, and 
she entered. 

John Erskine, sitting at his table, raised his head 
from his arms. His eyes were bloodshot, his face 
grey and haggard. He blinked at the figure with the 
white, frightened face. 

“Jean,” he said huskily, “go back upstairs.” 
He rose. “Go back upstairs,” he repeated firmly. 

But she advanced. “What is it? What are you 
going to do?” Her eyes fell upon an envelope upon 
the table addressed to herself. “ J.E. — J.E.” — her 
voice rang wildly. “ You love me so little!” 

3i4 


SHIFTING SANDS 

“So much,” he answered doggedly, but his head 
was bowed. 

“So little that it does not nerve you to face the 
consequences of your own — stupidity.” She spoke 
brutally. She was shaking from head to foot, but 
she went on. “When you had given your word to 
me — • ” 

“Don’t,” he cried brokenly, “don’t.” 

“Give me the letter.” 

Their eyes met. He pushed it towards her and 
turned away, gazing down from under his hand at 
the meaningless marks on the blotter, while she 
read. How could she understand? She could not. 
She must despise him. He felt utterly beaten, de- 
feated, prostrate. 

“So you still feel that you must pay.” Her voice 
was shaking. “You took me into your house — as 
a payment. You thought you would do your duty 
to me, and so pay. But you liked me, and then 
loved the duty — so that form of payment failed. 
Then you sent me away and thought you would pay 
in suffering. That did until to-night when I came 
back and you knew I loved you. Then you believed 
you would pay by losing my love through the truth. 
But I did not stop loving you. And now, all else 
having failed, you say here that it must be Tife 
for life,’ that though I may forgive, it will always 
be there between us and kill all love ; that you once 

— dead — I am young enough to forget and to be 

— happy.” Her voice was cutting. 

3i5 


SHIFTING SANDS 


He folded his arms, bracing himself to meet her 
arguments, looking at her as if from miles away. 

“Does n’t it occur to you,” she continued, “that 
there is something rather selfish in this desire of 
yours? Besides, how do you know that I care so 
much to be — * happy? This is no case of dishonour, 
J.E. To save your pride, you have simply set up a 
fetish of punishment and wish to sacrifice to it, not 
only yourself, but me — ” Her eyes blazed. 

“Don’t,” he cried sharply, “don’t. I can bear no 
more. The strain of it, these years and years, — 
centuries, — I have gone over and over it, over and 
over. But I swear to you” — he looked up — “I 
never thought of your loving me. And to-night 
when you left, it seemed the only way out. I was 
wrong — I was wrong — I see that. But what else 
could I do?” His shoulders shook, and from under 
his hand slow tears, hardly wrung, rolled down. 
“Years and years, day in and day out, till I’m a 
broken man — to let you — young — innocent — 
a child — no!” 

“Stop, oh, stop!” Her pained voice rang in ap- 
peal. She had found her argument at last. “Please 
don’t. You don’t know.” She took a step nearer the 
bowed figure. “ I ought to have told you. I meant to. 
I did, really.” 

“What?” John raised his head. “For God’s 
sake, what?” 

“Wait,” she pleaded. “I can’t tell you in a 
minute. But I will tell you all, John.” 


CHAPTER XLII 


Jean gripped her hands together and spoke where 
she stood behind him bravely, but in a low voice. 

“ Perhaps, J.E., I have frightened you too much. 
It’s very hard to tell. I did not think that I could 
ever tell anybody.” She paused, then plunged 
ahead. “It began the summer that I was seventeen. 
I had never known any boys or seen any men but 
you, till Rex Challoner came. He was amusing and 
good-looking, and made love to me in a way from 
the beginning, quite harmlessly, talking nonsense, 
and I liked it. The night that he asked me to go to 
the sand-dunes I knew in my heart that I ought not 
to go. But it was such a lark, and he was so wild to 
have me, that I did. He said it was no harm, and 
I was not sure that it was. Anyway, I went. And 
there he kissed me — he said he loved me. He said 
that I loved him because I let him kiss me; but I 
said that I did not. But I liked his kissing me, J.E. 
I did — I hate telling you this, but I must.” She 
stopped. 

“We walked back and I was miserable. I did 
not understand. I hated having liked his kissing me. 
Well, you let me in, and when I saw your face I was 
even more ashamed and frightened. I wanted fright- 
fully, all of a sudden, to be wonderfully good for 
you. I went upstairs and vowed, J.E., that I would.” 

3i7 


SHIFTING SANDS 


She stopped with an intake of breath. There was 
no sound from John Erskine. She went on. * ‘Well, 
you sent me away. Now I know that it was because 
you loved me and were punishing yourself. Then 
I thought it was because you wished to punish me, 
and it made me — reckless. 

“Of course you had my letters, giving you all the 
facts of my life, J.E., but facts are not what really 
count. The Baroness was a splendid chaperone, 
because she knows every one and could take me 
about. But I don’t think that it was a very good 
place for a girl alone, even well-chaperoned. Free- 
dom was in the air, a kind of liberty — and you had 
sent me away. I had nothing to tie to. Don’t be 
hurt, please.” Her voice was low and very tender. 
“It was no one’s fault. It was just me. Religion 
was only a form to us, was n’t it, J.E.? I can re- 
member when I was quite little wishing that I could 
feel like the Methodists at the camp-meeting who 
rave and sing and shout. Our religion was too polite. 
I kept up forms which meant nothing for a year; 
then I was ashamed to be illogical. I let them go. 
Sometimes I went into the Catholic churches and 
knelt down, but I did not know how to pray their 
way. I felt horribly at sea; but every one I met 
seemed just as much so. None of the girls I knew 
who were studying music and things seemed any 
surer than I — but perhaps they did not need some- 
thing to hold on to so much. Anyway, life seemed 
to me one big temptation. Nice women are not sup- 
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posed to feel these things. I mean, it’s expected of a 
boy, is n’t it? I began to believe what Rex had said, 
and I imagined myself in love with one man after 
another. That was the worst of it, there were so 
many. Some of them I could laugh at. But others 
I could n’t, and those, because I am a lady, I sup- 
pose, I dressed up in illusions and pretended to my- 
self to love.” 

She stopped. Still there was no sound from the 
man at the table. There was silence for a time, then 
she went on, in a firmer voice. 

“Of course, my music was an awful disappoint- 
ment. When I found that I would never be more 
than fairly good, I felt desperate. I stopped work- 
ing, and then Nina came along and took a fancy to 
me. She liked me a little for you and a lot for my 
looks, and because I did n’t care a damn, and she 
took me to England with her. I don’t suppose I was 
a failure. She introduced me to heaps of people; 
she started me on a round of country-houses. Nina’s 
friends are go-ahead, and I was go-ahead, too.” 
Again she stopped. “I don’t want to make myself 
out any worse than I was. A good deal of the last 
year I have been miserable underneath — having 
a ripping time on top. I kept up a semblance of a 
fight, too, to pacify my conscience — or my mind, 
which told me plainly that I could not be in love 
with all the men whom I did not hate. I did fairly 
well — perhaps because not one of them attracted 
me enough. Then I met a man — ” John Erskine 
3i9 


SHIFTING SANDS 


moved. Jean looked down at him. “ Don’t be fright- 
ened, J.E. The worst of it is over. It was the man 
Nina wrote about to you. I met him first in town, 
and I was so afraid of him that I was rude to him. 
But he got invited to the house where I was staying. 
Well, Nina said I was to take him. He was rich, and 
all that, but more than that, he is handsome — 
beautifully handsome, big and slim and blond, and 
he went to my head like wine. But, oh, J.E., I felt 
that it was just the old thing over again. I did not 
like him, yet when he came near me I was fascinated. 
It was just now. I was in a dreadful muddle. I did 
not want to marry him when I was my best self, 
but at other times I did. 

“Well, there was a woman staying there, a Miss 
Warwick. She goes about a lot. Every one seems 
to know her and like her. She is a good sort. You ’d 
like her. She is about forty-five, has gorgeous red 
hair, green eyes, a big mouth, an ugly clever face. 
She is rather big and awkward, but a good shot, a 
thorough sportsman. Every one was expecting 
the announcement of my engagement. Nina was 
very keen. But I noticed that Miss Warwick rather 
stuck about with me, and then she asked if she 
might come up to my room one night. So she came. 
I don’t know how she led up to it, but she suddenly 
went for me. She told me that she was going to talk 
straight; that she liked me and could not bear to 
see me make a fool of myself ; that I must not marry 
him. She said that if I did I would hate myself more 
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and more until I could not bear it, then perhaps take 
to drugs or drink and so sink lower and lower — all 
because the best of me was cheated. 

“ Before I knew it, I was telling her the truth, 
how I had fought and fought: how I could n’t fight 
him. She talked splendidly: made me see that a 
woman need not be ashamed of passion as long as 
she recognises what it is, and does not wrap it up 
in sentiment and work it off in sentimentality. She 
made me laugh, too. She said that was all an Early- 
Victorian cheat, like veneered rosewood furniture. 
She said that passion was a gift : that nothing good 
was made without it, music, nor pictures, nor books, 
nor beautiful children. But that the woman en- 
dowed with it must learn to call it by name and face 
it, as the best men face it; must learn to guard the 
flame, not letting it blow here and blow there : that 
it is a sacred fire. Well, when she left me that night, 
I meant to break it off with him at once. But — I 
did n’t. Nina had arranged a party to go to Paris, 
and we left the next day. We were together all the 
time. I hated it, but I could not break it off. Yet 
I would n’t be engaged, though Nina wrote you that 
I was. 

“Then one day we got lost on purpose. We knew 
Nina would not really mind. We took a motor out 
to the Bois and we walked there ; then we had lunch- 
eon; and then I wanted to see Notre Dame, so we 
motored there. He was bored. I always love it. 
When we had seen it, we crossed the bridge and 
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walked along the quays. I love the old book-stalls 
there. He was quite mad, and was trying to get me 
to dine with him and drive in the Bois in the even- 
ing, and end up at the Ritz engaged. Then Nina 
would not scold. I was wild to do it. We had been to- 
gether all day and I wanted to be weak. I had almost 
given in, J.E., in spite of Miss Warwick, when some- 
thing happened. Looking through a lot of books, — 
on one of the stalls, you know, — I came on a small 
one bound in green, that looked familiar. I grabbed 
it. It was yours — the one I had helped you with. 
Your name stared at me from the title-page. I paid 
fifty centimes for it. He thought me insane. Then 
I just sent him away — and then I walked back over 
the bridge with your book and into Notre Dame, 
and there I sat down and thought things out. I 
realised for the first time all this that I have told 
you to-night. I realised the truth of what Miss War- 
wick had said; but more than that, I realised that 
there would have been no danger, no fear anywhere 
if I had only had something to believe in. I remem- 
bered the good days here, the work, the sense of 
cleanness and endeavour. I thought of you working. 
I remembered many things: how you had been my 
refuge always. I remembered your face the night 
you let me in. I remembered lots of other things. 
I asked myself why you had sent me away ; why you 
had never come to see me. 

“Suddenly I knew that I must come back: that 
I must come back and ask you to help me to some 
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faith in something higher, perhaps through my 
faith in you.” 

She stopped. John lifted his head, but she put 
out a detaining hand. 

“Not yet; let me finish. I don’t think I realised, 
J.E., that I loved you. I only felt my faith in you. 
Yet, perhaps, I knew that you loved me. It’s hard 
to be quite sure. Anyway, I got up and walked out 
of that church, determined to come home. I was 
afraid to go back to the Ritz. I went to a dull gov- 
erness whom I had stayed with once, and wired Nina 
to come to me there. I had a bad half-hour with 
her the next day. She thought me most ungrateful ; 
but I was determined, so she finally gave in. I 
stayed on with Mademoiselle, and sailed from Havre. 
There is the story, J.E. Wait a minute.” She walked 
round to his side and stood before him. “ J.E., you 
must not condone. You must not say that this is 
all very innocent.” Her face was burning. “It’s 
not. If I marry the wrong man, it won’t be. It will 
be hell for him and for me, I know • — J.E., if you are 
only not afraid — not afraid to risk it with me, don’t 
you see — we could help each other — and oh ! who 
cares after all,” her voice broke — “about happi- 
ness?” 

He rose blindly to his feet. “ I do,” hesaid, “about 
yours. Jean, you marvellous woman. Condone? 
I hate it” — he caught her hands — “hate every 
man who has touched your hand, looked into your 
eyes, quickened your pulse by one beat. I hate all 
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the 'days and the hours that have parted us. And 
your loneliness — that I have never guessed — listen 
and look up and smile — we need each other. From 
to-morrow, Jean, nothing shall stand between us. 
Condone? Never, my darling, but I .understand. 
Go to bed. Quick!” 


CHAPTER XLIII 

The Erskine Memorial Library was filling with a 
crowd that promised to outflow into the street. At 
the end of the big room, opposite the entrance, under 
the portrait of the old doctor, the chairman’s table 
had been placed, and ranged behind it were the 
committee in whose name the meeting had been 
called. Owen Owens, Mr. Donner, Mr. Bowles, 
the Methodist minister, Mr. Savage, and two farm- 
ers, men of gravity and weight. A certain excite- 
ment was in the air. Every one knew of Jean’s re- 
turn and felt that it added the finishing touch to the 
occasion. Every one was eager to see her. Acquaint- 
ances all, the people smiled at each other as they 
took their seats. They liked the idea of the meeting 
in this room in which they felt a civic pride. Attica 
had not a better library. With its book-filled shelves, 
spaced by cases of minerals and of curiosities from 
far countries, its casts, its engravings, it made a 
fine background for the rows of village faces. All 
heads turned to greet David who arrived with Lil- 
lian and Mrs. Vincent. Milly, dimpling with pride, 
sat next to her friends. Constance Savage was in 
the front row. Seats were reserved by her side for 
Jean and Miss Roxina. Martha had already arrived 
with one of her cronies. Halfway down the aisle, 
Maria Beebe, Laura Meeks, and Joe Tanner sat 

325 


SHIFTING SANDS 

whispering together. The meeting was called for 
7.30. At 7.25, every seat in the room was filled, 
except two in the front row. At half-past seven pre- 
cisely, the crowd of boys about the door parted and 
John Erskine passed through them and up the room. 
The building resounded to an enthusiastic burst of 
applause. 

As he reached the table, he turned to bow his 
thanks. They saw that he was very pale. 

“He has n’t recovered from the shock yet,” the 
whisper ran from row to row. 

Now he was shaking hands with the committee 
and he was saying something about the empty 
chairs. 

“I don’t b’lieve Jean Dimmock’s comin\ Ain’t 
that odd?” Miss Meeks whispered. “No, she ain’t. 
Nor Miss Roxina neither. See, they’ve showed 
those Attica folks — the judge’s daughters — up 
into the seats. My! there is a crowd. Don’t Dr. 
Erskine look awful white and kinder set!” 

“Ladies and gentlemen — ” Rufus Haines was 
on his feet speaking with an unusual earnestness — 
“fellow citizens of Tacitus. It is my grateful duty 
to state to you to-night, in a few words, the purpose 
which has called us here. In this day of commer- 
cialism, when every man’s motives are suspected of 
self-interest, it is a grand thing to acclaim any man 
as an exception. How much more, then, when that 
man is as beloved as is Dr. John Erskine” — ap- 
plause — '“he needs no introduction to you” — - 
326 


SHIFTING SANDS 


laughter and applause —“ yet I may be pardoned 
if I briefly recall one or two of his claims upon your 
regard. In the first place, he renounced a career 
abroad to return among you. Now, I know that 
you people of Tacitus have good opinions of your- 
selves, and with reason,” — cries of “Hear! Hear!” 
and cat-calls, — “but I don’t suppose you are going 
to tell me that you think Tacitus can compare as a 
centre with Paris, let us say — ” 

“Paris, New York?” a man called at the door. 

• “Paris, France, my friends” — laughter. “Paris 
with all its store of historic associations and Paris — 
er — the home of the great Napoleon — Paris, the 
beautiful city of pleasure. This he renounced for 
Tacitus. Once here, what did he do? Did he repine? 
Did he regret? No; he threw himself heart and soul 
into your life. He built you this library in which 
we stand to-night” — applause — “he gave you 
a ground for recreation — where, by the way, I 
should like to say there’s to be a baseball game to- 
morrow and the team is in need of funds. He has 
placed his skill, his strength, at your service year 
after year, and to crown all, this very week, at the 
risk of his life, he performs a deed of heroism which 
must make the heart of every brave man here to- 
night — yes, and of every weak woman — beat 
faster” — prolonged applause. “ It is not my duty 
to say more. I leave that to the task of the older 
and more worthy than yours truly. But before I 
sit down I would like to give three cheers for Dr. 

327 


SHIFTING SANDS 


Erskine!” Amid a storm of applause and cat-calls 
from the boys about the door, he took his seat. 

At that moment, two men rose together, one was 
the Welsh preacher, the other was John Erskine. 
Owen Owens, it was understood, was the next to 
speak. He came forward, clearing his throat, his 
hands under the tails of his best broadcloth coat, 
a humorous, kindly smile on his clever old face. 
But John Erskine stood where he had risen, his 
hands grasping the table-edge, his face white and 
determined. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Owens,” his voice was hurried 
but firm. 

The preacher turned, startled. “Yes!” 

John took a step forward. “Let me speak first.” 

The preacher gazed open-mouthed at the set face 
of the speaker. 

“Certainly, John.” He sat down with decision. 
It was an odd way for the boy to behave. The pro- 
gramme of the speeches was arranged. 

John turned towards the room. A note of the 
unusual had crept into the proceedings. It aroused 
a surprised, expectant breathlessness in the people. 

Maria Beebe shrugged. “Trust him,” she whis- 
pered, “for gettin’ into the lime-light.” 

“Ssh ” — Laura Meeks was transfixed with excite- 
ment. 

“I have asked Mr. Owens to let me speak first,” 
John began, in a halting voice none of them recog- 
nised, “because I cannot let things go any farther 
328 


SHIFTING SANDS 


until I tell you what may change your feeling in 
regard to me.” He stopped and threw back his 
shoulders. “I am standing under my father’s por- 
trait. You all knew him — knew how he loved the 
truth and hated a lie. I believe that truth is as 
much to me as it was to him — yet for eight years 
I have lived a lie.” He stopped. The room was 
wrapped in a shocked, incredulous silence. Those 
near him saw that the sweat stood on his forehead. 
He moistened his lips. “ It was I who killed Robert 
Dimmock.” He stopped again, hardly knowing 
what outburst he expected. 

But the blank faces stared back at him in silence, 
which seemed interminable before Owen Owens, 
leaning forward, spoke — 

“Tell us how it was, John,” he said. 

The simple words, free from all blame or hint of 
melodrama, had the effect of letting down his 
hearers. The room seemed to draw its breath. John 
turned to the old man. 

“ It was in self-defence. It was in the dark. I did 
not know whom I had struck down.” 

Again there was silence. Then J ohn lifted his head, 
his face drawn. He addressed the room. “I had 
not been here long then. I valued my position 
among you. I dreaded the notoriety — the talk. I 
was tempted to keep silence — I fell — that ’s all 
there is to tell. You will know how to deal with me. 
No punishment can equal the hell I have suffered 
during these years. After the meeting I shall place 

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myself in the hands of this committee and to these 
gentlemen I will answer any questions and make 
my formal statement.” He stopped, his face and 
lips trembling. “I think some of you know how 
hard it has been for me to say this — to run the risk 
of losing your esteem.” He stepped aside blindly. 

Rufus Haines sprang to his feet, but before he 
could say the words that rose to his lips the preacher 
had struggled up and was speaking. 

“As an old resident of Tacitus, I rise to express 
my confidence — ■ ” he began, but he got no further, 
for down at the door there was a movement in the 
crowd. The speaker paused, looking down the room. 
“What is it? ” he asked. Some one elbowed through. 

“Is Dr. Erskine here? The doctor’s needed.” 


CHAPTER XLIV 


In silence, between the rows of faces known to him 
for a lifetime, John Erskine walked with bent head 
down the room, brushed through the group of boys 
at the door who parted to right and left. He passed 
out. He saw the motor waiting. 

“ Who wants me?” he said. “Oh, Jean — ” 

She stepped from the shadow. “J.E.!” her voice 
was tearful, yet thrilling exultantly, “I saw — I 
heard — I knew that you would — oh, I ’m so proud, 
I’m so glad. It’s out at the sand-dunes you’re 
wanted. I drove round the motor. I ’m going with 
you. You can never say no any more.” 

Her arm was in his. They walked down the path 
together. He saw her face, white and exquisite in 
the starlight. He wrapped her in coat and rugs, and 
took his place beside her. 

As they glided off, Jean looked back. The lights 
in the library still shone. She looked until they were 
out of sight. The motor rounded the hill, dived 
down the other side, passed the station, crossed the 
track. Before them the curiously scriptural coun- 
try lay distinct under the pale sky, cut by the rib- 
bon of the road. 

John Erskine spoke, in a hushed, exultant voice. 

“Do you see, the road lies straight before us.” 
He turned to her. 


33i 


SHIFTING SANDS 


With a wild leap of the heart, Jean saw his face, 
freed from the shadow of unrest, of brooding re- 
morse, strong in the strength of a new peace. He 
was like a man who has walked from shadow into 
sunshine. 

She knew that he was no longer afraid to love 
her; that he would /withhold nothing and that he 
had all to give. 

Stilled by her happiness, she sat muffled in her 
furs, thrilling to the touch of his arm, speeding on 
through the clear night air. All her being answered 
to the radiance of the pale, star-filled sky, to the 
magic light which lay over field and hill. Her spirit 
burned to the white heat of the Northman’s aspiring 
passion. Heart and soul and sense seemed fused in 
one pure flame. To go on for ever like this, for ever, 
and to end in yonder white fire which burns in the 
Northern sky. 

The car stopped. Jean roused herself from her 
trance, and saw with a curious superstitious shock 
that they were at the edge of the little wood which 
bordered the sand-dunes. The birches gleamed white 
and spectral against the little pines, and the track 
led through to a greater space of light, which Jean 
knew to be the sands. 

“Well,” John said, “ I must leave you here in the 
car. If you get cold or tired, come to meet me. You 
know the cottage at the other side. I shall be as 
quick as I can.” He got out and started down the 
track through the trees. 

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Jean sat forward, watching him. Her pride in his 
strength and his goodness, vindicated to-night, 
swelled in her heart, beating triumphantly through 
all her conscious being. Mingled with it was a deep, 
tender pity for what he yet had to face. She realised 
all to which his action of to-night would lead; all 
that would be torment to his sensitive pride. But 
she was not afraid for him. As soon as the investi- 
gation should be over, they would go away. Away 
— away, alone together to wander in wonderful 
countries, yet always with their place, their own 
place, waiting for them here. She smiled. She had 
watched him out of sight. 

She sank back. He had not asked her if she were 
afraid to stay alone. He knew that she was never 
afraid. Indeed, she welcomed this hour. She felt 
that, in both herself and John Erskine, passion was 
suspended for a space. They were in a calm which 
could not last, and she dreaded yet longed for the 
moment when he should finally allow the repressed 
feeling of years to burst its bounds. 

She drew a deep breath, looking about her. How 
strange that this should be the very way she had 
come with Rex. This was the place that had first 
revealed the possibilities of self to her. Down that 
track, in the warm summer air, she had walked to 
seek the unknown, something that as a child she 
felt, in certain places, lay so near. She had walked 
into the wood with the searching eyes of the idealist, 
and had found herself fast in Rex’s arms. With 
333 


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amazement she realised that she had lost the feel- 
ing of the nearness and actuality of the unseen since 
that night. The years between had been a maze of 
swift sensations, mingled, of pride and pleasure and 
pain. She had lost, as she dreaded doing, her power 
of awareness — and she had never known the loss. 

She sat erect, keen, trying to grasp again the old 
sensation. What had she felt was there? Something 
just out of sight, just beyond touch and hearing, 
just beyond call, which the spirit on tiptoe might 
yet, by upward straining, glimpse. Stealing through 
her she felt the old strange choking gladness, not 
like the gladness of love, but a feeling more ethereal, 
less intoxicating, more like an emanation from the 
keen, white, flaming fire in the North, through the 
pines. She stood up, the rugs slipping down about 
her, her eyes wide and shining, unseeing. She 
stepped out of the motor on to the wiry grass. Her 
colour had risen, her heart was beating. She started 
down the track. On either side she gazed into the 
heart of the little wood, where the delicate stems 
of the white birches stood stilly among the pines. 
The silence was more intense than on that other 
night. The mystic meaning seemed, in the hush, 
about to be revealed. Oh, for some sign — some 
sign — 

But the wood was passed, the sand-dunes lay 
before her. It was difficult going. She was tired. 
John had been such a long time. Her feet sank 
deep. She plodded ahead, determined to go to the 
334 


SHIFTING SANDS 


cottage and meet John Erskine. A bitter disap- 
pointment filled her and depressed her. To-night 
of all nights she might have seen! She stopped to 
take breath. She was walking in John’s footsteps. 
A faint rising wind just breathed over the crest of 
the hill, sifting the sand about her. There was not 
a light to be seen in house or barn of all the wide 
country spread before her. 

* ‘ J ust one great inscrutable sheet of trees and rocks 
and earth and sky and sand,” she said fiercely. 
“With the meaning all left out. I hate it.” She 
pushed on again. She remembered now her visit 
here with Constance. She longed to be back in the 
car driving homeward with John. Rounding the 
jutting sandbank she saw the track leading on to 
the cottage. A light burned in a window. Shadows 
moved against the muslin blind. She had a moment’s 
resentment that to-night of all nights John Erskine 
should have to spend himself for these people. Then 
the scene of this evening rose before her, and with 
swift shame she realised that all they could together 
give to these their people would not be too much — 
but scarce enough. She followed the track in the 
sand across the gully. As she reached the other side, 
John Erskine came out of the door and down the 
steps to the road, turned and saw her waiting for 
him. 

“Good,” he cried; “just in time. How tall you 
look against that wall of sand ! ” He had reached her 
side and caught her hand. “And the road leads 

335 


SHIFTING SANDS 


straight before us,” he said again in a deep, happy 
voice. “Oh, Jean, my woman — my Jean!” 

She looked up at him with a quick intake of 
breath. It was coming, that moment which she had 
feared — had longed for. She saw it in his face, in 
his eyes. He was drawing her to him — Far away 
— above and away — she heard confusedly a sound, 
but she was close in his arms. 

The sound grew to a grinding, rushing roar. 
John's arms tightened about her. The hillside 
seemed sliding down upon them, a tall pine tree 
riding upon a great wave of sand, whose spray al- 
ready struck them. She felt John bend above her, 
his shoulders to the hill, trying to shield her, and 
with an ecstasy that mastered all other sense she 
felt his lips in that supreme moment on hers. In 
the rush and roar, in the midst of the flying sand, 
he gave himself to her in that kiss. 

The landslip roared by them, thundered down 
into the gully, and in the silence that followed, they 
drew apart and looked about them. 

John raised his head and pointed. Above them, 
an out jut of rock had divided the onrush of destruc- 
tion, to the right, to the left. They stood in an 
island of road, safe, untouched. 

“But the rock,” Jean cried weakly; “the rock. 
It was n’t there before.” 

“The rock,” John said quietly, “was under the 
sand. The shifting uncovered it. That is all.” 

She gazed across at him with widening eyes. 

336 


SHIFTING SANDS 


“ Oh!” she cried with a gasp, “how stupid I am! 
How stupid we all are!” 

His answer was his hand upon her shoulder. 
“Come!” he said, turning her gently to face the 
piled stream of rock and earth across their road. 
“We must climb.” 

She laid her hand in his, and so, together, they 
made their difficult way t over the heaped ruin to 
the sand dunes, down the track through the moon- 
lit wood to the quiet widespread country that lay 
beyond. 


THE END 


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